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SINB AD 


Novels by C. Kay Scott 
Blind Mice 
Sinbad 

The Napoleons (In Preparation) 
Siren (In Preparation) 




SINBAD 


A Romance 


M 



C. KAY SCOTT 


“Excellent men have not been wanting (to whose labour and 
industry I feel myself much indebted) who have written ex¬ 
cellently in great quantity on the right manner of life, and left 
to men counsels full of wisdom: yet no one has determined, as 
far as I know, the nature and force of the emotions and what the 
mind can do in opposition to them for their restraint.” 

Spinoza —Ethica ordine geometrico demonstrata, etc. 

(Trans, W, Hall White) 






i > 

> > y 

) 


i 

y 


y 

y 


New York 

THOMAS SELTZER 

1923 


Cjrj> 







Copyright, 1923, by 

Thomas Seltzer, Inc. 


All rights reserved. 


1 •* 

i « t 
« 

( « « 

* 

MAY 31 1923 


PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA 


J 



©CU705633 

at*? 







To 

E. D. and C. W., 

Wiser than these. 

44 Mort€ perchb m’hai fatta si gran guerra?” 

Canzoni—Giacomino Pugliese 




\ 




\ 






CONTENTS 


BOOK I: “LES” 

CHAPTER PAGE 

I. Miragb. 3 

II. Eyes a Year After.21 

III. The Ocean ..44 

IV. A Point of Time .62 

BOOK II: HOWARD 

I. The Island in the Moon. 77 

II. Mirror Maze.95 

III. Diluting the Needs of Man .... 107 

IV. The Sleepwalker .. 118 

V. The Tamers.129 

VI. Webs .138 

J 

BOOK III: ALGERIA 

I. “The Everlasting Return” .... 149 

II. Footlights!.. . 166 

III. Cake.188 













CONTENTS 


CHAPTER PAGE 

IV. The Happy Ending ...... 204 

V. The Feae of Life.218 

BOOK IV: “EM” 

I. Image &. 239 

II. Mist . 251 

III. Tie .257 

IV. “What Little Girls Are Made Of” . . 263 

V. Love May Go On ....... 272 








DRAMATIS PERSONS 


Lester Drane, a successful scientist, who trades 
all for romantic love. 

Emily Tyler, a gifted girl, who trusts only her 
womanly intuition. 

Howard Story, a modern man, who despises life 
apart from Art. 

Algeria Westover, a true Bohemian, a person, 
no longer young, who imitates herself. 

Genevieve Strang, a “new woman,” a girl with 
the code of a gentleman 

Other Persons and Creatures, Bankers, Peo¬ 
ple, Writers, Friends, Radicals, Janitresses, 
Painters, Zoologists, Waiters, Poets, Fakirs, 
Prostitutes, Children, Critics, Marionettes, 
Enemies, Artists, Ghosts, Etc. 

Scene: The Metropolitan City of New York. 

Time: Late Autumn, Winter 3 Early Spring , 
three years after the Great War . 


BOOK I: “LES” 


“1*171 not a young man ... I had studied myself; I had 
had experience of myself; I knew how much I loved her, 
and how happy I should he . . . But I had not — I feel it 
now—sufficiently considered her . . . Bid I consider that 
it was no merit in me, or claim in me, that I loved her, when 
everybody must, who knew her? . . . Did I consider that 
I took her—at her age ...? I have not found it out 
before.” 

Charles Dickens — “The Cricket on the Hearth* 9 


SINBAD 


CHAPTER I 

MIRAGE 

“1 saw a man pursuing the horizon; 

Round and round they sped. 

I was disturbed at this; 

I accosted the man. 

*It is futile / I said, 

4 You can never - * 

4 You lie / he cried, 

And ran on” 

Stephen Crane —“The Black Riders” 

1 

A low gray-green fog had crept over New 
York: the houses stood like boulders in a stream. 
Two dim figures fled from the street, ran through 
a hall and up the stairs. 

“Good evening, Mr. Drane, good evening, 
Mrs. Drane.” The fat and kind Polish janitress, 
with her dark, naive eyes, smiled as she stood 
aside for them. 

“Good evening,” Emily and Lester called 
back almost in a breath. 

3 



4 SINBAD 

They unlocked a door and entered. Ghost- 
pieces of furniture with shadows perched on 
them, waves of city noise growling sullenly out¬ 
side. Emily lighted candles. To keep out the 
dark. . . . They smiled at each other. Emily 
slender, green-gray eyes, chestnut hair, Celtic and 
quick: Lester heavy, nearly swarthy, with blue 
eyes, deliberate and almost noble in gesture. 
They removed their wraps, raced to a couch and 
lighted cigarettes. Silence. Emily gazed 
dreamily through the smoke. 

“Les!” 

Lester answered affectionately. 

“Yes, Em.” 

“Isn’t it fun living with you! What were 
you like when you were a little boy?” 

“Oh, moony.” He did not like to talk about 
himself. Emily did. 

She smiled seriously. 

“I’ll bet you were! Aren’t things funny, Les? 
When I was a little girl I used to think and think. 
People tried to keep things from me. I wrote 
something bad on my slate at school once, and the 
teacher sent me home. I tried to be in love when 
I was thirteen. Then soon I wanted so badly to 
be popular that I was positively ill from anxiety 
after every dance. And afterward, suffrage 
work: would you believe it of me now? It was 
my religion for two years. You know the family 
all laughed at my painting. I never should have 


MIRAGE 


5 


been able to shake off things. But I’m actually 

—oh, Les, you’ve been so good to me-” There 

was a catch in her voice. She snuggled close to 
him and held him tight. 

Lester kissed her hair but did not speak. His 
heart was tender toward her. She’s my child 
. . . hurt . . . 

The fog crouched outside. The city was an 
enemy. Les is warmth, life. She laid her cheek 
to his. 

“Les, do you love me?” 

“Yes,” he whispered. 

They sat in the silence. She felt warm and 
safe with him. 

Strength. He knew himself. I may be a 
visionary, but I’m strong. Moonstruck! Dim 
and cool forest . . . spinning moon with her 
brood of frightened stars . . . hearts leap into 
the meshes of moonlight . . . 

Emily spoke. 

“Let’s go to bed, Les.” 

2 

A clear cool evening. 

Emily Tyler and Lester Drane walked vigor¬ 
ously down the street. They were going to 
dinner with friends. 

“Did they say Manzinetti’s, Les?” Emily 
smiled at Lester. Her eyes were very steady, 
except when she smiled—then they smiled too. 



6 


SINEAD 


“Um-huh.” Lester paused to light a cigarette, 
shading the flaming match with his hands. 

The pink glow through his small fingers was 
pretty, Emily thought. She put her arm 
through his. 

“Are you tired tonight?” 

“Not very.” Lester was not much taller than 
Emily, but his head was strongly set on his body 
and almost massive. “Like a bishop’s,” she had 
once said. He did not like being asked if he 
were tired. He was twenty years older than 
Emily. 

Greenwich Avenue, Eighth Street, down Mac- 
Dougal, past the Square, Eleecker Street, Little 
Italy, shops, holes, venders’ carts, stalls, queer 
lights, foreign sounds- 

“Do we turn to the right or left here?” 

Lester laughed. 

“Here we are,” he said after a moment, squeez¬ 
ing her arm and then releasing it. 

Emily preceded him into the dingy little 
Italian restaurant. At a long table, dim with 
light, half a dozen of their friends were waiting. 
Emily’s vivid face brightened at their noisy 
welcome. Her teeth flashed. Lester smiled 
slowly. 

“Hello, Em! Hello, Les! Em’s going to sit 
between me and Toby—No, Em’s got to sit by 
me tonight—Les, you can sit between Jen and 
Blanche—I’ll sit here—Now that’s not fair. 




MIRAGE 


7 


Stuart. Em sat by you last time—How are you 
kids, anyhow?—Where’s Michael?—Well, chil¬ 
dren, what shall we eat?” Lester beckoned to a 
favorite waiter and the group began to consult 
earnestly. “Antipasti — minestrone—spaghetti 
—maiale con peperoni—spumoni ” 

“Let’s have some red ink,” suggested Stuart 
Perinchief, rapping gravely on the table for 
attention. He was always shabbily dressed, an 
air of dryness and fatigue about him. 

“All right! Good! Let’s! Yours is a great 
mind, Stuart!” 

Lester whispered to the swarthy handsome 
young waiter who had a sweet smile and angrily 
brilliant eyes. 

“Si, signor Large teacups were quickly 
placed before the diners and three bottles skill¬ 
fully whisked under Lester’s chair. 

Conversation. Lester and Emily in coming to 
New York had innocently looked forward to 
finding individuals who would comprehend and 
sympathize with their aspirations. Thinking of 
themselves as misunderstood, wounded and dis¬ 
heartened in a callous provincial atmosphere, they 
had both unconsciously made the meeting of 
“fellow artists” a last symbol. They had been 
naively religious in this faith. To know people 
who can share and inspire instead of hinder and 
destroy! Lester smiled now as he thought of it. 
A few months among the jealousies, anemia and 



8 


SINBAD 


nerves of various hostile coteries had driven him 
and Emily to gather about them a small circle 
of their own. Not great, perhaps, but here at 
least is a little kindness, he thought. Tonight in 
the obscure restaurant, warmed and confident for 
the moment, all were talking at once, not bril¬ 
liantly or profoundly, but harmlessly. Affection¬ 
ate smiles were turned to Emily. Lester felt 
gentle toward these people. At last food came 
and the meal began. 

“There’s Michael!” cried Emily, waving her 
fork at a tall youth with the head of a poet. 
“Aren’t you ’shamed of yourself?” 

Michael Kennedy hurried toward them. He 
sank into a chair beside Lester. 

“Awfully sorry to be late.” 

Genevieve Strang shook her enormous pendent 
earrings at him from across the table. 

“You always are, Michael,” she said in a 
rich low-pitched voice, almost too perfectly 
modulated, her enunciation theatrically distinct. 
Genevieve’s manner was well-bred to the point 
of discomfort. 

Michael blushed and laughed self-consciously 
as he saluted the others. His greeting to Mark 
Leighter, who sat nearly opposite him, beside 
Genevieve, was especially warm. Leighter had 
the cadaverous exterior of a romantic backwoods¬ 
man. He answered Michael cordially. They 


MIRAGE 9 

were both in love with the same girl, and were 
being very noble. 

On the other side of Lester was Blanche Dixon, 
a plump little person whose bobbed hair spread 
out fan-like as she whirled toward him and whis¬ 
pered in his ear, giggling as she talked. Her 
conversation was rambling and ceaseless, but 
Lester smiled. 

Em, at the head of the table, opposite Perin- 
chief, was between Toby Adams and Tit Miller. 
Small head held high, heavy hair; her face was 
a pure oval, almost perfect in profile. Translu¬ 
cent brown eyes with greenish lights, turning with 
sudden fearlessness from one person to another. 
There was a delicate distinction to her body. She 
could sit harmoniously on a chair. Toby leaned 
near her, seemed to glue his eyes to her face, and 
whispered. 

“You dear thing!” 

She smiled frankly and kindly. 

“What’s the matter with me? Is my hat on 
crooked?” 

“I’m tasting you with my eyes,” he responded 
soulfully. He had a trick of looking at women 
that was cultivated and at the same time uncon¬ 
scious—a narrowing of his lids and a relaxing of 
the focus of vision in a moist gaze of admiration. 
Em was used to him. 

“Now, Toby, don’t get messy,” said Genevieve, 
in a very British-upper-middle-class manner. 


10 


SINBAD 


Her huge earrings were an incongruous yet 
somehow attractive accompaniment to her small 
broad face. Everything in Genevieve’s appear¬ 
ance pretended to languor and sophistication. 
In this agglomeration of characteristics there 
was nothing to explain the steady almost naive 
sincerity of her long-lashed dark blue eyes. 

Em gave Adams’ arm a sisterly pat. 

“Yes, keep your technique for some new girl, 
Toby dear.” 

Tit Miller, on Em’s other side, was a dancer 
whose constant affectation of esthetic attitudes 
had given him almost grotesquely feminine 
motions. He invited her attention with a cir¬ 
cular gesture of his slim hand. 

“And did you hear, Em, that when I danced 
unannounced last week at the Settlement a girl 
came up to me with tears in her eyes and said, 
‘Are you the great Fokine?’ ” 

“Ha! Ha! Ha!” laughed Stuart Perinchief 
with sudden violence from the foot of the table. 
“What happened then? Were you wearing any¬ 
thing but your-?” 

“Stuart! Aren’t you dreadful!” exclaimed 
Blanche at his side. 

“What did I say that was dreadful?” he 
demanded truculently. 

“She knew what you might say and headed you 
off in time,” laughed Leighter. He was never 
malicious in his remarks, as he was jealous of 



MIRAGE 


11 


his own sensitiveness and capacity to be hurt. 

‘‘Stuart makes me so angry!” said Tit minc- 
ingly to Em and Toby. 

The large teacups had been filled and emptied 
several times, and the pile of bottles under 
Lester’s chair had grown. Michael began to 
hum a song. The words were not yet discernible, 
but all except Em and Perinchief looked worried. 
The tune Michael was humming was known to 
his friends—and also the words. 

“Go on, Michael!” Stuart spoke solemnly, like 
a squire in his cups. 

“Now, Stuart,” protested Genevieve. 

Blanche giggled hysterically. 

“Let Michael sing, Jen,” said Emily, her eyes 
sparkling wickedly. 

Genevieve was firm. 

“Why, Em, you know what he will-” 

The conversation again became vague to 
Lester. He and Emily had many acquaintances, 
but these were their friends. He was still study¬ 
ing them. The hurly-burly of New York, its 
shadowy, grotesque, turgid, “artistic” atmos¬ 
phere, had placed upon him and Em necessity 
for human contact. These chums had floated to 
them, clung to them. Blind in their search for 
release? Waifs from the Middle West and South 
huddling together in a city and drinking prohibi¬ 
tion wine from teacups to get laughter. Old 
virtues with new morals, he thought. Difference 



12 


SINBAD 


in manners . . . very human and pathetic . . . 
they adore Em . . . 

Les looked up. A tall hawk-faced young man, 
who had been eating alone at a table beyond, 
was passing on his way out. He smiled at Mark 
Leighter, who half rose and extended his hand. 

“I want you to meet my friends,” said Mark in 
a persuasive tone. “Miss Tyler, this is Howard 
Story—the etcher.” 

Em’s constant gaze wavered a little as she 
glanced up into Story’s thin keen face. The other 
introductions were made, and with an easy 
gesture he drew a chair from another table and 
seated himself between Tit and Em. There was 
a soft color in her cheeks. She now met Howard’s 
greenish-brown eyes with her usual steadfast 
look. At the advent of a stranger a slight con¬ 
straint fell upon the intimate circle. 

“Hooray!” shouted Michael incontinently. 

Howard Story turned to him composedly. 

“We’re tryin’ to abandon ourselves to the little 
yve are,” hiccoughed Stuart. 

Howard smiled. Em noticed his hard chiseled 
mouth. She admitted no faults in her friends. 
Her head was held a trifle higher. 

“Don’t mind us, Mr. Story,” explained Gene¬ 
vieve haughtily. “We’re only a little —you 
know.” 

Howard glanced at Em’s defiant head. He 
noted the brassy highlights in her autumn-leaf 


MIRAGE 


13 


brown hair, the delicacy of her face, the sureness 
of her manner. He thought with irritation of 
what he had seen and heard of her pictures. Her 
exceedingly feminine appearance disconcerted 
him and stimulated his curiosity. He glided 
skillfully into the spirit of the moment. 

“Couldn’t we have some more wine?” he sug¬ 
gested pleasantly, beckoning to the waiter as he 
spoke. 


3 

The laughter and chatter went round the table 
once more. Stuart and Michael devoted them¬ 
selves especially to the additional wine, and 
thenceforth beamed on Howard as an initiate. 

“What do your friends do?” asked Howard 
genially. He addressed Mark Leighter, but Tit 
replied. 

“Why, Emily and Mr. Leighter-” 

“Of course I know Miss Tyler’s work, and 
Mark’s stuff.” 

“Well, you see.” Tit made an eurythmic 
gesture. “Mr. Perinchief writes under a pseu¬ 
donym, Amos Boyd-” 

“Oh, yes,” said Howard, concealing his bore¬ 
dom. 

“And Toby is a research chemist, in his spare 
moments. Miss Strang writes and draws and— 
things. And Michael does poems and reviews, 




14 SINBAD 

and Blanche—well, she’s a nice child. Of course 
I-” 

“What are you, Mr. Drane?” 

“Bank clerk,” said Lester. His clean-shaven 
cheeks and chin, with blue shadows, and his deep- 
set eyes seemed part of his quietness. He felt 
injured for his friends, in having them cruelly 
sorted out by what they had done. This man 
Story is a Greenwich Village esthete. Recog¬ 
nizes only people to fear . . . worse than the 
bourgeois crowd . . . 

Howard turned to Em. There was subtle 
respect in his voice and mien. 

“Miss Tyler, it’s a real pleasure and-” 

Blanche, at Lester’s side, giggled, and he lost 
the rest of the words. He did see the interest in 
Em’s eyes. Howard had experienced intense 
artistic gratification in Em’s appearance; now he 
felt a thrill of satisfaction at the sound of her 
light-timbred vibrant contralto voice. He exerted 
himself to be his best. 

Genevieve whispered to Mark. 

“Your friend Mr. Story exudes charm all 
over the place.” 

The conversation gradually dwindled to a duet 
between Howard and Em, and finally to a mono¬ 
logue by Howard. Les caught only some of the 
phrases. 

“Cezanne—the human stereoscope—abolished 
sculpture — impressionists — prism convicts — 




MIRAGE 


15 


Gauguin was the Pierre Loti of painters—emo¬ 
tional wall-paper—Degas—forerunner of posters 
—the ancestor of C. D. Gibson-” 

Em laughed gleefully. There was admiration 
in her eyes. Howard knew he was being brilliant. 

“El Greco—the Delsarte skeleton man—Ma¬ 
tisse first saw the beauty of fetuses—vers librist 

of painting—baa, baa, baa, baa, baa, baa-” 

Les could not distinguish the words. 

“What was that, Howard?” In Mark’s tone 
was a proprietary elation over the effect his friend 
was producing. 

“I was saying that these damned futurists are 
painters of orations.” 

Em’s usually mournful eyes were shining, her 
lips parted. Howard stole a quick glance at her 
and hurried on. 

“Synchromists—daubers with the heart-burn 
—Kandinsky, menstruates in paint—neo-futur¬ 
ism is only-” The monologue across the table 

became indistinct to Les again. 

There were signs of restiveness. Stuart and 
Michael were nodding drowsily. Les looked 
over to Genevieve. Loyal jealousy was written 
on her face. He tried to be detached. Howard 
Story was the type of Bohemian artist he 
detested. False art . . . no human values . . . 
surfaces . . . intellectual snobbishness . . . Les 
would not acknowledge a male apprehensiveness. 
Em sensed the pitch of the scene and, glancing 





16 


SINBAD 


hastily at Les, rose to go. Howard sprang to 
assist her with her coat. A spot of color was in 
each cheek and his sharp aquiline face was ahnost 
attractive. The others rose, assumed their wraps, 
and the party filed out. Howard walked with 
Les, Em and Genevieve together. The rest 
followed, Stuart and Michael, with locked arms 
and uncertain step, bringing up the rear. 

4 

As the procession reached the corner Howard 
asked: 

“Which way are you people going? How 
about walking through the Square?” He slightly 
straightened his long stooping body and looked 
at Em as he spoke. He had observed the beautiful 
manner of her walk and carriage. 

“I suppose we’re going to our respective 
homes,” replied Genevieve icily. She glanced 
furtively at Stuart. She was going to stay by 
Em. Her tone was hostile for Les’s sake. 

“I’m going this way,” said Blanche volubly. 
“You know, Les, John said to me, ‘If you’ll 
come down tonight,’ and I said, ‘What! down to 

your rooms-’ ” She rattled on serenely while 

the others consulted. 

Toby looked at Em miserably. 

“I have a date. I must hurry off.” He pointed 
in the direction Blanche had indicated. He was 
in the clutches of a new love affair. 



MIRAGE 


17 


“Serves you right!” whispered Em viciously. 
There was irrelevant elation in her voice. 

Howard stood smiling. 

“I’m going to take Stuart and Michael home 
and put them to bed,” announced Mark benev¬ 
olently. 

Genevieve glanced gratefully at him. Now 
she felt free. 

“I should love to take a stroll.” Tit Miller 
made a graceful gesture with his arm as he spoke. 

Howard glanced at him coldly. 

Eagerness sat on Em. Les and Genevieve 
agreed politely, and the quintet moved down the 
street. The two girls fell behind again and the 
three men walked together. Les was com¬ 
batively silent. 

“I feel like dancing up Fifth Avenue!” 
announced Tit. His thick glasses gave him 
almost an appearance of blindness, but his tall 
girlish body was a nearly perfect object. 

Howard turned ostentatiously to Les. Behind 
them Emily and Genevieve, arms about each 
other’s waists, were talking earnestly. 

“Stuart is so discouraged,” said Genevieve. 
“His literary broker is always wanting him to 
cut out the good parts and tack happy endings 
to his stories.” She was cunningly trying to 
bring Em back to relations that were permanent. 

Em was loyal interest at once. 


18 


SINBAD 


“What Stuart should do is to write the things 
he wants to,” she declared decidedly. 

“Bread and butter.” Genevieve sighed and her 
piquant little face looked older. “I wish I 
could—I’m glad he can get drunk occasionally, 
anyway.” 

Em hugged her friend impulsively. Genevieve 
was the only woman she really trusted. Genevieve 
sighed with mingled hope and indecision. She 
was anxious about Stuart, too, but Em’s affection 
was assuring. 

“Stuart’s a dear, Jen. And Les is sweet, and 
I wish I could—We both wish—don’t we?” 

i 

Faithful Genevieve was content. She could 
leave. 

“I must go back,” she whispered. 

“Please don’t, Jen.” 

“I’ll see you soon. Hug Les for me.” Gene¬ 
vieve kissed Em and slipped away in the 
darkness. 

Em hurried forward. 

“Where’s Jen?” asked Les. 

“She had to go,” said Em soberly. 

Without comment Howard stepped back 
beside her while Les and Tit walked on before 
them, Tit talking vivaciously. When Howard 
left them he shook hands with Les and Em. 

“It’s been an event to have met you,” he said, 
ignoring Tit. “I’m going to be guilty of a party 
Thursday night, at Algeria Westover’s studio. 


MIRAGE 


19 


She’s in Europe, but her rooms are bigger than 
mine. I’d love to have you both come. You know 
the place, same building Mark lives in, next floor 
above.” 

Genevieve had done all she dared. The 
impression she had striven for still lived. But 
Em existed by moments. Howard was waiting 
solicitously. She met his greenish-brown eyes 
happily. 

“Thank you.” 

Howard smiled again. 

“Good night.” He started away. 

“I’m going your way. I’ll walk along,” called 
Tit, following him. 


5 

Em and Les went slowly toward home. 

“I wish the boys wouldn’t drink so much,” 
she mused aloud. “But he’s interesting, isn’t he?” 

“Who? Tit?” asked Les. 

Em smiled. 

“I’ve seen his etchings at the Contemporary 
Society’s.” 

Les did not answer. I wonder . . . 

“New York seems empty without Carl,” he 
said after a pause. Carl had been his one intimate. 

“Our friends are a relief, aren’t they? Don’t 
you think they’re sweet nuts?” Em’s voice was 
affectionate. “Don’t you love ’em, Les?” 

“At least they don’t spout shop every minute.” 


20 


SINBAD 


“Well, they’re ours, anyway.” Emily hummed 
a little tune as she walked brightly at his side, 
her hand holding his tightly, within his overcoat 
pocket. “Mark’s friend is much more like us 
than like most of the crazy freaks we’ve run 
into.” 

Les released her hand and fumbled for his 
keys. 

“You seem impressed.” Nothing innate . . . 
how can she . . . feeling through others ... an 
instrument . . . 

Em followed him upstairs. He struck a match. 
Suddenly she blew it out and threw her arms 
about his neck. 

“Oh, Les, Les, let’s never allow anything to 
come between us!” 

He felt her tears on his cheek in the darkness. 
He was afraid. She is seeking. No joy . . . 
love is not enough . . . forever alone . . . wind 
on my face like a loved hand . . . darkened 
sea . . . the stars far off . 


• • • 


• • 


CHAPTER II 

EYES A YEAR AFTER 


“The sexes deceive themselves about each other: the 
reason is that in reality they honor and love only themselves 
(or their own ideal, to express it more agreeably). Thus 
man wishes woman to be peaceable: but in fact woman is 
essentially un peace able/* 

Friedrich Nietzsche —“Beyond Good and Evil** 

(Trans. Helen Zimmern) 

1 

Yellow shriveled leaves fluttering through 
the red light of the slanting autumn sun. 

Lester Drane always walked rapidly with body 

somewhat bent forward. His shoulders were 

more ape-like than bowed. He was very strong. 

He crossed the untidy square and turned down 

a little side street. Several small Italian children 

were playing near the steps of the house where 

he lived. His dark skin and thick brows seemed 

to make him one of them. The leader of the 

games, a ten-year-old girl with budding bosom, 

stumbled against him as he paused to take a 

bunch of keys from his pocket. She glanced up, 

a look of instinctive fear in her moist startled 

eyes. He smiled down at her. She paid him no 

21 


22 


SINBAD 


further attention, and resumed her shouting 
sway over her playmates. 

Lester ran quickly up the old stairs. 

As he entered the living-room he whistled, one 
note rising sharply after the other, an old signal 
between him and Emily. Then his heart sank 
at the silence and the darkened windows. Three 
months before she had attempted suicide. Death 
as a playmate . . . None of their friends believed 
such things. 

“Em!” 

The habitual droop at the corners of his rather 
small straight mouth was emphasized. But he 
knew she was there. 

He called again. 

“Eml” 


2 

Em lay on the tobacco-brown rug in the bed¬ 
room, a pale blot in the darkness. He knelt 
beside her. 

“What is it, darling?” Too-heavy brows— 
smudges on her dim face. 

“Oh, Les-” she sobbed. 

To Em all things were of equal importance if 
they were equally near to her. It made her an 
artist. It made him wary. Em had cried daily 
for four days. Even before that, ever since the 
meeting with Howard Story in the restaurant. 



EYES A YEAH AFTER 


23 


she had been distraught. Damn that night at 
Manzinetti’s when Mark introduced him! 

Four days. Howard Story’s party at Algeria 
Westover’s studio. Four days ago. Why did 
I go? Algeria Westover in Europe. Howard 
in her studio. Lovers . . . There flashed on 
Les the picture of Howard and Em at the party. 
Lazy blue smoke in the room. Candles . . . dull 
green and yellow mist . . . broad couch . . . 
Howard enthroned . . . giant heron on a 
nest . . . More talk. El Greco, Cezanne, 
Hodler—Em hanging on Howard’s words . . . 
defenseless eyes . . . 

“What is it, dear?” Les asked again gently. 

“Oh, I want to die-” she wailed with sudden 

harshness. 

The first time he heard this cry a year ago 
he had thought it only words. Now. Belief 
always comes. My love of life has separated us 
forever . . . 

“Tell me what it is, Em.” 

She raised herself on one long narrow hand. 
The beautiful curve to her thin lips gone. Her 
face close to mine . . • 

“You know, Les.” 

His heavy eyelids twitched. Les feared Em’s 
concrete fleshliness because he knew it could 
ignore his idea of himself. He would not bear 
that anyone but himself should excite her. What 
he feared had come. 



24 SINBAD 

She rose to her knees and seized him fiercely 
in her arms. 

“Les, do you hate living with me ? Why didn’t 
you let me kill myself a year ago?” 

Her tears burned his cheek. He shut his eyes. 
Eyelids of day closing . . . wide mantle of the 
moonlight . . . nothing clear or simple . . . sick 
joy . . . people like shadows . . . formless 
suffering . . . dogged by death . . . Sophocles 
. . . Em is right. More Jean Jacques Rousseau. 
Agh! Lights on still water . . . golden lilies 
with shining stems . . . 


3 

They had talked for an hour. They were 
tired. A candle burned on the mantel. Both 
were standing now. Les began to walk slowly 
to and fro. His small rigid hands clenched. 
His large brow wrinkled, eyes almost colorless 
in thought. 

His voice trembled slightly. 

“I am not possessive, Em. You can see whom 
you wish—do what you wish.” 

“Oh, you intellectualize me so!” she cried. “It’s 
more subtle than that. A woman— Can’t you 
see? Oh no, you can’t—you can’t. You hate 

me—you hate me-” She hid her face in her 

hands. 

“Don’t, Em. Please, Em.” No matter how 




EYES A YEAR AFTER 


25 


subtle the reason is, the means of hurting me is 
just as horrible. 

She heard nothing he said. She only felt that 
he was repudiating her. 

“You hate me-” she moaned. The slender 

fingers with widened tips were trembling. Em 
gave an impression of delicacy and lack of 
physical stamina. 

Lester could be only quietly eloquent. 

“We cannot talk. You hear only those words 
of mine that serve your instinctive purpose to 
shatter our relation. You resent our relation 
because I built it and not you. You have always 
failed it and therefore you wish it away. It is 
not I who hate you, Em. You hate me when I 
fight for our life together. If you had made it 
you would defend it with your life-blood. You 
would adore me because I was subject to what 
you had made. But now you would destroy 
with secret joy because you know the death-blow 
would be yours and not mine.” Stupid talk . . . 
I can’t. Professor. Schoolmaster . . . the god 
of pity . . . 

His face was lined and his usually ruddy skin 
was gray. He always feared her response, fought 
for fixity in her desire. 

Em looked up. She made a little movement 
toward him and then retreated. The tense droop 
to his mouth gave slightly as the muscles of his 
cheeks relaxed. She stared into his eyes with a 



26 


SINBAD 


tragic intensity that hypnotized herself. He 
returned her gaze unwillingly because he did not 
wish to lower his eyes. Irrelevantly he noted 
the faint down on her lip and cheeks. 

Em’s heart expanded in a sudden and uncon¬ 
trollable wave of compassion. 

“Oh, my darling-” She convulsively 

strained his head to her breast. “My poor boy. 
Oh, Les, I love you-” 

Strife made her amorous: peace made him 
amorous. His breath came quickly. Em, can’t 
you see, can’t you see you are killing me ? Dumb. 
Why can’t I say what I feel? She believes in me 
only when I am weak.—Then she can pity me. 
I can’t think any more ... a body that breaks 
. . . swinging on the bough of life . . . why . . . 

The tears were running down her cheeks. 

“Sweetheart-” she whispered. 

They stood with their arms about each other. 

“Em, I want you to see him whenever you 
care to.” 

“But precious, I don’t want to see him—oh, 
I’ve hurt you-” 

4 

Lester was coming home again, this time early. 

His clean-cut body, always swaying forward, 
moved neatly through the crowds. Always 
between me and mine. Sex. He mused as he 
walked. Love without life. Childhood . . . 






EYES A YEAR AFTER 


27 


shadows on the wall like great bats . . . wicked 
children . . . little Hilda . . . drawers unbut¬ 
toned . . . music of tiny bells . . . millions of 
flowers bursting into bloom . . . white birds 
with shining wings . . . women . . . lustful 
kisses . . . Em. Her weakness cutting at the 
roots of life. 

As he ascended the dingy stairs he knew 
Howard would be there. 

Em was pouring tea. 

“I asked Howard to come. I didn’t expect 
you so soon.” Em hated evasions. She hadn’t a 
particle of malice and she hadn’t a particle of 
mercy. What she did have was a straightfor¬ 
wardness that slew people. 

Talk between them. Howard’s greenish eyes 
turned on Les. 

“You’re a realist, Mr. Drane. A man of your 
scientific training appraises us intellectually 
with no emotional sharing.” 

Sunshine was streaming through a window in 
the Dranes’ living-room. It threw saffron high¬ 
lights on half of Lester’s large, almost four¬ 
square nose, and on one heavily lobed ear. 

“I suppose so.” His voice was cool and kind. 

Em’s directness was like a sword-thrust. 

“Bosh! Les is the sweetest thing you ever 
saw, Mr. Story. You’re encouraging him in 
being a clam, that’s all.” Her Scotch-hazel eyes 
flashed and the reddish glow warmed in her thick 


28 


SINBAD 


brown hair as she moved nervously. They’re all 
alike—mythmakers, she thought. Lester hated 
her impatience of moderation. Even when they 
were at peace, he feared. 

Howard crossed his long legs and bent over the 
table. He gazed like a huge bird at one of Em’s 
unfinished drawings. 

“No, I’m not a mythmaker, Mrs. Drane.” Em 
started visibly and pulled her sagging green 
smock further up on her shoulder. “I knew 
you were thinking that,” Howard continued, 
smiling. “We artists-” 

Their voices grew vague to Les. Always 
seeking, he thought as Em and Howard rattled 
on. Understands her soul. Every new person 
she meets is to give her something I cannot. 

“I appeal to Drane.” 

Howard’s voice came to Les as from a perfect 
stillness. 

“I beg your pardon,” said Lester awkwardly. 

Howard was sure Lester disliked him. Em 
felt that she was being reprimanded. 

“These expressionists,” Howard turned for¬ 
mally to Lester. “Don’t you think they are 
trying to get the exact opposite of impression- 
ism? 

“I’m not sure that-” Les’s deep blue eyes 

sought Em’s. 

Howard interrupted. 

“Well, at any rate-” 





EYES A YEAR AFTER 


29 


The conversation flowed on again without 
Lester. Em makes me helpless before my 
enemies. He feared flux, that which alone she 
trusted. He was always fighting for their sanity. 
She would throw all into the dust in a second. 
Pity has cut me off from her forever . . . 
Howard was rising. His gaunt length towered 
in the dim room. 

He held out a bony hand. 

“Well, Drane, I suppose we’ve bored you with 
this shop.” 

“I’m not much of a conversationalist. You’ll 
have to get used to me.” 

“Emily tells me you write. I’d love to see 
some of your stuff some time.” 

“Thank you.” The man’s like a marionette 
—sodomy with art! 

Em’s eyes were dark and inscrutable. 

“I’ll show you down.” She seized a candle 
and lighted it. “The stairs are frightfully dark.” 

“Thanks. Aren’t you nice?” smiled Howard. 
“Good-night, Drane.” 

“Good-night.” 

Dark. Darkness falling like rain . . . calm 
and peace . . . vain like acted scenes . . . dead 
and wordless pain . . . lips white in pain . . . 
shadow like a shapeless stain . . . the terror by 
night . . . glowing sparks of stars vanished 
altogether . . . sprinkle tears of pity over the 
dumb hearts of the earth . . . 


30 


SINBAD 


5 

Genevieve called Les on the telephone. He 
seized the receiver briskly. Hair well trimmed, 
clothes not new but carefully brushed, perfect 
linen, motions definite. He showed a confidence 
he never felt. 

“Empire State Trust Company,” he said 
curtly. 

“Hello, Les.” 

“Hello,” he replied in another tone. Before 
him lay an orderly pile of papers. Brazier 
Smelting Company Incorporated Twenty-Year 
Sinking-Fund Convertible Gold Notes—Slater 
County Electric Transit Corporation First 
Equipment Mortgage— It seemed impossible 
that any of his life could come to him through the 
desk telephone in his hands. 

“Are you and Em going to Manzinetti’s 
tonight?” 

“No.” His end of the conversation must sound 
like a business call. 

“Well, we’re not either. Come over to our 
place and I’ll cook dinner. Michael will be here.” 

“All right, thank you.” 

Les’s assistant, young Babbitt, was listening. 

“Was that the Potter-Wright people?” 

“No,” said Les. 

“Their manager called me three times yester¬ 
day. Worried as hell. We won’t renew. They’ll 



EYES A YEAR AFTER 


31 


get theirs all right all right.” Young Babbitt 
licked his lips. 

6 

Em was asleep when Les reached Jane Street. 

“I was dreaming.” Her eyes were soft. 

“What did you dream?” 

Em’s eyes changed but she did not answer. 
When she arose and put on her hat and coat it 
was as though she were still in the dream. 

On the street they were silent. They reached 
the narrow old-fashioned red brick house where 
Genevieve and Stuart lived, and Stuart himself 
opened the door to their ring. His small pale 
mouth was hard and in his eyes lay a look of 
unacknowledged frustration. Genevieve came 
out of the little kitchen. A large apron protected 
her severe dull-purple gown. 

“Where did you get your new earrings?” asked 
Em listlessly. 

“Eve sent them to me from Moscow. They’re 
from Samarkand.” 

“What color of hair is she wearing now?” asked 
Les mischievously. Poor old joke! I wonder 
how I’ll get through this evening. 

Genevieve made a face at him. She wouldn’t 
argue about her friend Eve. She wanted things 
to be gay to help Les and Em. 

“We won’t wait for Michael. You children 
sit down and I’ll bring on the nourishment.” 


32 


SINBAD 


Her rich voice was the same, but at home she 
dropped her undue precision of speech. 

“Good idea.” Les was almost dumb with 
pain. His pride made him speak naturally. 

“Stuart’s father wired yesterday that he was 
coming down for the night, and so I had to go 
over and sleep with Blanche,” said Genevieve 
crossly as they began their soup. “And my 
mother is coming Wednesday, so Stuart will have 
to go over to Michael’s. One wonders when 
they’ll meet, or one of them open a bureau 
drawer. Sweet land of liberty—it’s as bad as 
being married!” 

“Worse,” remarked Les. 

“Well, I’m not, anyway, and nobody can alter 
that.” 

“Nobody but yourself.” 

“And I won't be, either.” 

A ring. Stuart opened the door and Michael 
hurried in. 

“Hello, kids. So sorry to be late.” He seated 
himself hastily and pulled a large bottle from 
his coat pocket. Michael’s brown eyes gazed at 
people with a passionate yet abstracted intensity. 
It was only when one noted his thin wide mouth 
that he failed to resemble the portraits of Lord 
Byron. 

“As it occurs so seldom, you’re forgiven this 
once,” said Genevieve ironically. 

Michael flushed. 


EYES A YEAR AFTER 


33 


“I’ve brought some home-made Malaga as a 
peace offering,” he replied humbly. 

Emily said hardly a word. Stuart was 
engulfed in gloom. Lester seldom talked much, 
and the meal was enlivened only by affectionate 
banter between Genevieve and Michael. It was 
not the success of her dinner that caused Gene¬ 
vieve’s anxious look. She glanced stealthily at 
Em from time to time. After he had eaten, 
Stuart promptly went to sleep on the couch. He 
had had a story rejected, and Genevieve was 
thinking of him, too. Michael called Em over to 
one side of the room to read her a poem, the 
writing of which had made him late to dinner. 
He laughingly refused to let the others hear it. 

“You’re worried, Les,” said Genevieve sym¬ 
pathetically. 

There was a reserved but intricate emotional 
understanding between the two. Her intellectual 
generalizations were usually crude and always 
on the safe side of pessimism, but she was 
capable of intense personal loyalty and her 
instinctive feeling was basically fine. 

Les spoke in a low tone. 

“I wish Carl were here.” 

“Is it anything about you and Em?” she asked 
softly. She already knew. 

“It probably is.” His face was immobile. 
Genevieve put her hand on his and her eyes were 
moist. “You’re good, Jen,” he said. 


34 


SINBAD 


They were both embarrassed by their emotion. 
Les lowered his eyes and reached uneasily for 
his pipe. Genevieve moved across the room to a 
chair beside Emily. Michael, when he saw that 
Les was alone, rose, lighted a pipe also, and 
walked over and stood by the mantel. He stared 
down at his friend. 

“What’s the matter with Em tonight, Les?” 
he asked in a low tone. 

“Nothing,” replied Les impatiently. Kindness. 
They pity me. I shall go . . . healing in the 
spaces of the world . . . 

Michael smoked in silence, a kind look in his 
remote eyes. 

“What is it, dear?” Genevieve, screening 
herself from the others, kissed Em. 

“Oh, Jen, I don’t know.” Em tried to conceal 
her agitation. Tears rolled down her cheeks 
and her lips quivered. 

Genevieve stared at her sympathetically but a 
little severely. 

“Les is a darling,” she said slowly at last. 

“Oh, Jen, I know it.” Em gave a tiny sob. 

“Is it—someone—when we all believed so in 
the relation between you and Les?” 

Em was mute, condemned but rebellious. They 
don’t know. Never anything to touch. Some¬ 
thing in me hates and fears the idealism Les 
loves. I want to be touched—I want it to be me. 


EYES A YEAR AFTER 


35 


Just being an artist isn’t enough. I’m weak. 
I know it. 

Les rose to go. “Hadn’t we better leave these 
people their sleep?” He could not prolong the 
evening. His face was gaunt. Genevieve, turn¬ 
ing from Emily, made no comment. Stuart was 
roused from the couch, where he had been repos¬ 
ing with privileged rudeness, and shook hands 
with affectionate depression. Michael smiled 
evasively. They realized something was wrong, 
and their powerless sympathy left them con¬ 
strained. 

“Good-by.” 

Em and Les went down the stairs. They 
walked a little apart, Em glancing at him now 
and then with a furtive and apologetic anxious¬ 
ness. She felt helpless. 


7 

Lester had been a university professor and 
dean, a naturalist of international fame, organ¬ 
izer of a dozen scientific expeditions. Tropical 
lands, great laboratories, students flocking, presi¬ 
dencies of learned societies, degrees, dinners, 
speeches— We have with us tonight . . . re¬ 
searches that have shed undying luster . . . 

Undying poppycock. He had given up every¬ 
thing when he met Em. Scandal. Em, from a 
small Southern town, had run away with him. 
Distinguished colleagues cut him. He knew 


36 


SINBAD 


that to those who needed less than he did the 
absoluteness of his gesture seemed false. Artist. 
Write. Having Em, he wanted to write. He 
had always wanted to write. Grandiose. He 
still had verses written when he was twelve years 
old. His Ballad of the Mayden Bride written 
at sixteen. Les could repeat it to himself to this 
day. 


Come lithe ye then kind gentlemen 
And harken to this verse, 

So alle may learn that love wyl spurn 
And break cruell Dethe's curse . 

A noble knyght wyth armour bright 
There rode from his demesne. 
Who kist wyth pride his ladye bride 
That ne'er his wyf had been . 

Proud to bee sent on quest urgent 
Yf on his marriage morn. 

He rode away the somer's day 
From his dere love forlorn. 

Who to him sayde, “Ye have I wed 
And even shulde I dey 
E'er me ye wive, I shal yet lyeve 
To kiss ye tenderly." 


How his boy’s heart had thrilled to have 
written it! 


37 


EYES A YEAR AFTER 

Ten years were fled ere returned 
Alle gaunt and pale the knyght: 

His errand made, his steed a jade, 

At the postern he did lyght. 

He walked silent and then sone went 
Into the busy court 

TV her his folk stode talking not loud, 

And the children laughed at sport. 

When he cam there they eche did stare 
And fell round and kneeled; 

“Here Lorde ” they cried, “our Ladye died 
Last even in her bed .” 

Have I really outgrown this? 

He sayde no reply and went straightly 
Up to the chamber above 

Thyder was layd his wyf yet a maide 
Whom his bolde herte did love. 

He kneeled to rest his hede on her breast 
And dipt her his arms around: 

Wyth gentle syghs she oped her ees 
As coming fro a swound. 

Her pale cheek did flush wyth love's swete blush 
And she kist his lips anoon; 

Then he lift his hede for she was agayne dead. 
And he rose and stode allone. 

Les decided that he liked it, even yet. 


38 


SINEAD 


He past the court through and his people trewe. 
And no wordis did they saye 
Till that the knyght in the fading lyght 
Bode once agayne away. 

In India, Africa and the islands of the sea he 
had tried to write. Un Byron de nos jours. 
When he was through with it, it all seemed flaunt¬ 
ing. There was something—so he discovered— 
he hadn’t yet realized about himself. Sonnets 
on Fate— 

O impotent Philosophy! What sage 
Hath e'er devis'd a meaning of our hirth 
Or death—the reason of the stars, this earth? 
As well the gibber of some ancient mage 
As the blind wilderings of mine own age. 

Or God, created in man's piteous dearth 
Of alternate, to build with hideous mirth 
The universe to be our mad souls' cage . 

Sophist avaunt! What good to know or learn 
These meaningless inventions of the mind? 

O fool, what boots to bind thy soul 'neath stern 
Discipline's rod, who liastest as the wind 
From nothing — hurl'd through fancied life and 
fate — 

To endless nothing of the ultimate? 

Cosmic. Bah! He smiled at this, but his 
bitterness even now made such a gesture. Some¬ 
times he seemed to himself the only actuality in 


EYES A YEAR AFTER 


39 


an unreal world. To write this! To write. The 
itch was still in him. More than ever, perhaps. 
But he knew better now. Novels. He had writ¬ 
ten and burned half a dozen. Had shown them 
to no one, had learned from his despair. He must 
snare significances more subtly. Grasp the shim¬ 
mering inexpressibilities . . . 

He saw in each failure how he might say the 
hitherto impossible. He felt he had at last come 
to strive for the evocation of the simple. It 
was a deep personal necessity for him to articu¬ 
late himself. None of them understood—never 
would. He was an artist. He knew it. The 
last novel at least—half-finished and now in his 
desk—showed it: in it he longed to imprison 
forever the poignance of trifles, to record for all 
time for beautiful souls the grave mystery of the 
body. Alone, he had never deeply distrusted 
himself; but Em’s hungry specificness made him 
doubt his pale wide solutions of inner tragedies. 
He poured senseless oblation before her momen¬ 
tary color, but he was afraid of it. The logic of 
the ideal: the fallacy of the flesh! Where was 
the way? He only knew he must go on. 

His name was not Lester Drane. Em’s name 
was not Emily Tyler. Also they were not mar¬ 
ried, though all but their most trusted friends 
supposed they were. She loved passion for 
itself. He had destroyed his background at one 


40 


SINBAD 


blow. To be free. To write. Chimera. No, it 
was not fantastic. He believed. He had known 
that he must feel the inner sympathy of another 
artist. Emily was an artist. Someone in Europe 
once said she was and so America had found it 
out. She was one who did the things other women 
threaten to do. Her hair was glorious. 

They had lived together now for nearly two 
years. It had taken a year of the time for the 
scandal to blow away and leave them in peace. 
They were in Greenwich Village. Why they 
could not tell. Living among the blackmailers of 
art, he thought. He longed for the wilderness. 
Sentimentalists. At first they had accepted the 
extravaganza. It was new. Babes in the wood. 
Em had been smothered in a traditional home. 
They needed background. Untrammeled! The 
lion’s den. Les ceased to think. 

8 

Les deceived himself, but not about Em’s in¬ 
terest in Howard. 

It was no ordinary affair. Em had had such. 
Howard was a symbol—because he seemed to 
have no reservations. Hawk face with pleading 
lips. Color of temperament . . . red beads . . . 
green and yellow ... a string of beads without 
the string ... Latin .. . Preserving his emotional 
integrity by capitulation. Em believed in no 


EYES A YEAR AFTER 41 

feeling that did not go out in emotional language. 

Howard was fluid—not fixed with shame. 

Les knew that if he could weep Em would be 
all tenderness to him, too. I cannot ... I can¬ 
not ... She resented that in him which she 
didn’t touch—but he felt she shouldn’t want to 
touch it. Thus she kept hurting herself to hurt 
him. Intimacy without tenderness. What does 
she want now? Never forgiving strength . . . 
she strong and I weak . . . repelled by my sub¬ 
jection . . . Em, Em, Em . . . not perfect but 
what all other women lack she has . . . they seem 
dingy . . . never passive in anything . . . pierc¬ 
ing like a white flame . . . body like . . . love 
me ... 

He slept badly. Too much thinking. 

Tonight Em sat up in bed, her slim body 
tightening, her small breasts rising beautifully 
behind the yoke of her nightgown. 

“Les, why don’t you like Howard Story?” 

Talk till morning. It was trying to grasp 
smoke. At first they had been able, when things 
came between, to release themselves by talking. 
Em still could strike through the mist with ruth¬ 
less words. Drawing fire to warm . . . But he 
had not been able to bear it. He had taken 
refuge. 

“You won’t face the simple fact that you’re a 
jealous husband, Les.” 

Les sprang out of bed and opened the window. 


42 


SINBAD 


His heavy features were quiet. The arclight 
guilty before the dawn . . . rose and pearl . . . 
floating on the blue pool of heaven . . . peace 
like warm snow . . . street gleaming like a rep¬ 
tile . . . night soaring . . . dead of light . . . 

Em looked at him scornfully. 

“My God, but you’re romantic, Les!” 

9 

Les was romantic—no doubt of it. 

He was walking in the park but he did not see 
the park. 

Sand . . . drifted and white to the horizon 
. . . camels rocking like ships . . . sun of blood 
plunging over night’s verge . . . mother-of-pearl 
fields . . . sleep . . . 

Snaky caravans winding . . . groined forests 
. . . church . . . jungles with leaden leaves . . . 
snuffling beasts in the dark . . . thatched kraals 
... haystacks ... naked women ... bronze statues 
... drums in the moonlight, turn, turn, turn, turn, 
turn, turn . . . 

Palms beckoning in the still night . . . coral 
beach . . . faint white sickle of shore . . . moon 
like the Holy Ghost . . . hidden eyes . . . breasts 
like eyes in the pale radiance . . . flower in her 
hair . . . 

Peons . . . lean faces in Rembrandt shadows 
. . . knife flash . . . life blood spurting down 
• . . fireflies worn for jewels . . . lace bobbins, 


EYES A YEAR AFTER 


43 


tap, tap . . . lips on her jonquil skin . . . stars 
. . . a thousand golden throats singing . . . 
Algol sang loudest of all . . . 

Crashing colors in a blinding glare . . . wise 
giants crawling . . . red and gold howdahs on 
their backs ... tinkle, tinkle, tinkle . . . smells . . k 
thousands of smells . . . rubies . . . bracelets 
rubies . . . rubies set in beautiful noses . . . mad¬ 
dening bodies hidden under swaying cloth . . . 
dust. . . gray dust . . . blue dust . . . soldiers . . . 
pah! . . . 

He rarely spoke of fifteen years spent at the 
ends of the earth. 


CHAPTER III 

T HE OCEAN 

/ 

“The waters are flashing, 

The white hail is dashing. 

The lightnings are glancing. 

The hoar-spray is dancing — 

Away!'* 

Percy Bysshe Shelley— “The Fugitives ” 

1 

The rain dripped softly and the paved streets 
were filled with dim reflections. Window-panes 
were streaked with tiny rivulets. People bent 
under umbrellas. Early-lit street-lamps glowed 
nebulously. Long ribbons of light glistened on 
the sidewalks. As usual Les walked quickly. 
His shapely feet were sure. He was thinking 
of the country. Next best thing to wilderness. 
Rain falling steadily in starless darkness . . . 
flooded roads . . . dim fields . . . woods of 
bare trees . . . branches strewn with unseen 
pearls . . . 

Flotsam in New York, knowing so few. Les 
was statistician for the Empire State Trust Com¬ 
pany. Big granite pile, mahogany desks and 

well-groomed bank officers. He compiled fig- 

44 


THE OCEAN 


45 


ures. Still biometrical! His epoch-making sta¬ 
tistical work in zoology had fitted him for his 
tasteless job. Figures, millions, billions, col¬ 
umns on long sheets, funded debts, bonds, gold 
certificates, sinking funds, hell! 

He had free-lanced until a year ago. 

His novel. No time. Articles on Gauguin, 
unanimisteSj neuroromantik, book reviews. 
Waiting in outer rooms, casual office girls, polite 
and bored editors, attic, poor food. 

He and Em had been through this together. 
Good artists seldom make good money. Em’s 
earnings were not enough for herself. Empire 
State Trust Company, comfortable studio in 
Jane Street now, novel still half-finished. 

When Les reached Jane Street he found a 
note. 

“Gone to have tea at Howard's rooms . Back 
at seven . Em." 

Les lay on the bed in the twilight, listening to 
the rain. His long hair that had been brushed 
back from his brow was tumbled. Nameless 
dread lay with him. Why had sex tricked him 
through his art ? The agony of creation that had 
gone astray in imaginative laboratory experi¬ 
ments! They are classical now . . . Associates 
astounded and resentful. Les smiled in his fear. 
Science is as staggered as religion by personality. 

Obscure . . . forgotten . . . Earning bread 
in the Empire State Trust Company! His old 


46 


SINBAD 


colleagues were probably busy damning young 
enthusiasts who had the temerity to doubt data 
that his forgotten researches tentatively sug¬ 
gested—data he had once regarded as hints of 
perhaps significant things beyond. The more he 
had become dissatisfied with discovery the more 
he had inspired others. Before he left it all he 
had actually hugged a perverse pride in present¬ 
ing plodding minds with flashes, outlines, prophe¬ 
cies—that worked out to their credit alone. Jean 
Jacques again, no doubt. It was fitting that he 
should end up as a Greenwich Village dabbler! 

His novel. The sweat stood on his forehead. 
He had thought of love as a light. Star-gazer. 
Les was really thinking of the stars. Angels sow 
stars . . . wreaths of stars . . . orbits hung round 
the neck of night . . . stars in the hair of night 
. . . starlit windows of the house of God . . . 

“Your vanity refuses to let you face what love 
is,” he said aloud. 


2 

Em was in Howard’s flat. Hyper-restrained 
color-scheme, Matisse, two priceless Japanese 
prints. Howard was pouring tea this time. 

Talk at first esthetic. Cubists and futurists. 
Picasso. Marinetti. Miinchen and Diisseldorf. 
Kandinsky—musical color. Eocpressionismus — 
Marc and Chagall, Kokoscha and Meidner, Max 
Pechstein’s child paintings. Music—Arnold 


THE OCEAN 


47 


Schonberg, Satie. Dada—Gertrude Stein, Tris¬ 
tan Tsara, free association. Blah! 

“Drane is an anachronism—a real man,” 
spurted Howard suddenly, his thin face rather 
cruel. “What sort of stuff does he write?” 

“Oh, bitter.” Em’s voice was at once antag¬ 
onistic. 

“Confessions, I suppose.” 

“It’s damned good realism, I think.” She 
frowned and fumbled for a cigarette. 

Howard pointed to a small dark-red tabou- 
rette. 

“Smokes at your elbow,” he said. When she 
had lighted the cigarette he continued in the same 
tone, “I suppose that Ryder is really our only 
great-” 

“Don’t be silly,” she snapped. 

Howard smiled. 

Em was long-waisted, so that her clothes hung 
well. Her manner of sitting revealed emphasis 
and grace without restraint. Her cheeks showed 
slight color when she was excited. She had slen¬ 
der ankles and feet. Now she tucked her fine 
legs under her in the wide, soft chair. When 
she was comfortable Howard spoke again. 

“He hates psychical cruelty as I do physical. 
We’re different kinds of cowards.” 

Em rested her chin in her hand. 

“Les isn’t a coward,” she said. 

“He should have someone like himself. You’ve 



48 


SINBAD 


no gentleness in you. You have abandon, but 
there’s no friendliness in your love. He’s un- 
happy.” Howard’s artistic vanity often made 
him say things he grudged. 

Em winced. 

“It’s my fault.” 

“You’re a spiritual dadaist. One thing’s as 
valuable as another. That’s why you resent sac¬ 
rifice.” 

“But he’s so—so-” Her eyes hardened and 

misted faintly with tears. 

“Pooh! His repugnance to over-emotion is 
dictated by his sense of personal harmony. He’s 
preeminently moral—you’re not. You’re the 
wrong one for him, that’s all. Why not be sen¬ 
sible?” 

Em loved edge. She was thankful for being 
hurt. I shouldn’t have to eat myself at any rate, 
she thought. People were afraid to flatter Em 
crudely: she was too great in their eyes. So she 
felt that none desired her as other women are 
desired. She was looking for anybody. Howard 
dared to aspire. He rose and bent over her. 

“I suppose you don’t kiss,” he said. 

She closed her eyes. Les would have thought 
it ugly. When Howard released her she got up 
and took her hat and gloves. She felt vaguely 
unhappy, but pleased with her unhappiness. 
Howard didn’t idolize her. 

As they parted at the door he said: 



THE OCEAN 


49 


“I’m going to have another party—here— 
Thursday night. Hope you’ll both come.” 

3 

Accident. Howard was at the Piedmont gal¬ 
leries. Em came in. There were few people in 
the long room. He smiled and came toward her. 

“Hello! Came to look at your blue-green 
thing.” 

“So did I,” laughed Em. 

They both squinted at her picture. The glow 
from the skylight over them made Em’s face 
under her small soft hat look haggard and a little 
pathetic in its animation. 

“My dry-points are at the Contemporary Soci¬ 
ety’s barn.” Howard never omitted to mention 
his etchings. 

“Let’s go and see them, too,” she proposed, 
still laughing. 

“Let’s.” 

They left together. The air was like wine, 
the sunlight old gold, sumptuous limousines pass¬ 
ing them, down the broad, clean avenue. 

“Why don’t I ever see any of your etchings at 
your place?” 

“Keep ’em out of sight. Public’s bad enough, 
let alone one’s friends. Nice to see you so soon 
again.” 

There was blankness in her relief. Her deli¬ 
cate oval face flushed. Sensitive gestures, voice 


50 


SINBAD 


softly musical. Em conveyed a wistful gallant 
boy-girl quality. She spoke quickly. 

“I’m glad.” 

“Want to see you all the time.” She did not 
answer. His intensifying determination pleased 
her and frightened her. It forced her to admit 
clearly something which made her fidelity 
to Les a lie. “Going to, too.” Howard’s nos¬ 
trils widened cruelly. Unadmittedly he wanted 
her because he envied her work. Em relaxed in 
the feeling that she was acting inevitably from 
her inner nature. She breathed deeply. How¬ 
ard’s voice reached her. “I’ve got to have what 
I want.” Doubts contended in her. Les could 
keep me if he tried. I’m not to blame for my 
qualities. He doesn’t want my honesty. He has 
his ideal. She was glowing with the power of 
a new enterprise. “Do you know that, Em?” 
Howard’s tone was mercilessly insistent. 

“Don’t be too sure.” 

“You talk like an ingenue. Look at me. Do 
you love me?” 

“Yes,” said Em. She startled herself with her 
unanticipated response. I don’t conceal things 
from myself! 


4 

New York Bohemia. The grave of achieve¬ 
ment. The place artists leave as soon as they 
can. Tobacco smoke, sex talk, post-prohibition 


THE OCEAN 


51 


alcoholic messes, communism. New conventions 
more implacable than the old. “Yes, we’re mar¬ 
ried, but—” Envy, mysticism, scandal, art, 
homo-sexuality, hope. Coteries: painters, writ¬ 
ers, sculptors, poets, batikers, critics, back-room 
theaters, “just artists in living,” suum cuique, 
fools, children, people. A few human beings 
not yet tired of the lure. Greenwich Village 
needs food. A very few working pitiably. Once 
in a year a moment of beauty that catches one’s 
throat. A little corner of life after the great war. 
The place that had been cruel to Les and Em. 

The night of the party. Les’s pride made him 
go. Most of the guests were assembled by the 
time he and Em arrived. Howard met them at 
the door. His tall, stooped form seemed somber. 

“I’m not going to introduce you.” He bent 
down to them and spoke distinctly amid the burst 
of sound that flowed into the hall. “You’ll know 
everybody before the evening is over, even if you 
don’t now.” He already felt a proprietary van¬ 
ity in Em, but it did not keep him from resent¬ 
ing her. He hated to owe an intellectual pleas¬ 
ure to a woman. 

Several fellow-painters recognized Em and 
drew her into their circle. Les seated himself 
in a corner by a girl he knew. Her eyes seemed 
honest in the crowd. Near him Frank Stieg, the 
clever Village bore, was clearing his throat pre¬ 
paratory to further speech. Stieg was scarcely 


52 


SINBAD 


five feet tall and weighed perhaps ninety pounds. 
His skin, hair, mustache and goatee were all of 
the same yellow hue. His smoke-stained teeth 
and his eyes were brown. A tomthumb-uncle- 
sam physique. His voice startled one, however 
—it was enormous. A small group of girls hung 
on his words. 

“He always discourses in triplets,” Lester’s 
acquaintance whispered maliciously. 

“Everything comes to me in triads,” Stieg 
boomed suddenly. “I’m at a book now—on 
Aristophanes, Villon and Rabelais. Humorists 
if you please—that is male wits. The humorist 
is hopeless and therefore tolerant.” 

“But contemporary-” A fair auditor 

hesitated and was drowned. 

“Today ? None! They’ve winked out in Ana- 
tole France, Schnitzler and Hermann Bahr.” 

As the crash of Stieg’s voice died away Les 
caught the thin sound of a woman’s tones near 
him. He glanced at its almost emaciated hun- 
gry-eyed owner, who was talking earnestly to a 
stout young Jew. This was the Great Critic, 
and he had coldly focused blue eyes. 

“When the dream becomes unbearable your 

psychic censor-” The hungry woman was 

absurdly wealthy. The Critic listened. 

“Another book on Tacitus, Cervantes and 
Swift,” shouted Stieg. “Yes, satirists —female 





THE OCEAN 


53 


wits. The satirist has faith, poor thing—wants 
to make things better.” 

Across the room Pierre Gouvain, the sculptor, 
his long black hair rumpled, his charming eyes 
glowing, was gesticulating and almost screaming. 

“My weemen may be fat, but zat iss not ze 
question. Ze question iss, are zey not beautefool?” 
He glared at his vis-a-vis indignantly. 

The hungry-eyed woman’s voice again inter¬ 
vened. 

“—incest-wish is the well-spring of all 
romance.” 

“Modern satirists!” Stieg was bawling con¬ 
temptuously. “Mark Twain, Shaw and Rose 
Macauley!” 

“In prison again?” Two feminine Radicals 
had paused near Les. The elder, a poet, was 
speaking. “Poor dear! Yes, she’s an eagle, too.” 

Howard, a tray in his hands, approached them. 

“Won’t you have a glass of wine?” 

“Ugh!” shivered the younger of the two 
women: it was Eve, Genevieve’s friend, just 
back from Moscow with an entirely new shade 
of hair. “I couldn’t. It reminds me of—the 
blood of Russia.” 

“Rousseau, Byron and Romain Rolland—” 
Stieg’s larynx was like a trumpet. 

“All Schopenhauer meant was the libido,” sang 
the hungry soul’s high soprano. “The phallic 
symbol of-” 



54 


SINBAD 


“Humph!” snorted Stieg. “Jean Jacques’ 
grandchildren—Wassermann, Van Eeden and 
our younger English novelists.” 

Les looked around the room for Em. His 
glance passed Lou Kohn, leading amateuse of 
the Teacup Theater (who was draped against a 
door a la Sarah Bernhardt), and rested on Em 
and Howard—alone in a window-seat. He rose 
and walked toward them. His girl acquaintance 
turned to a neighbor. 

“Mr. Drane’s not a poet because he says he 
isn’t,” she remarked carefully. 

A last hungry piping followed Les. 

“—such as Gridley’s novel on the Elektra 
complex. It’s not only nareistic fixation-” 

A final stentorian challenge from Stieg. 

“St. Paul, Spinoza and Nietzsche—all Gott - 
betrunkene Menschen” 

Les reached Em’s side. Her cheeks were 
crimson. She looked up quickly. 

“Shall we go, Em?” 

“Sorry you must run away,” said Howard 
kindly. 

Les and Em knew many in the throng: Eitero 
Tanaka, smiling in silence all evening, Jasper 
Jobson the successful novelist, looking success¬ 
ful, Dhas Mitra (and his turban) whose single 
exclamation for all occasions was “Elephant!” 
and Carmen Stubbs—always like a character- 
actress playing the part of a prostitute—“One 



THE OCEAN 


55 


thousand bucks for a single story, my dear!” 
Little Celia St. John, ever the center of a group 
of men, smiled up into the face of a giant young 
painter as Em and Les passed. Celia recalled 
a wax lily. 

“Well, tired little boy, if it’s too far to your 
place, you might spend the night with me, only 
one flight down in this same building,” she was 
saying. No one laughed. 

All this . . . understand . . . belong . . . 
Howard . , . Dante . . . limbo ... he and 
Em . . . Les felt sick. 

“Thoreau, Whitman and myself—all revoltes ” 
yelled Stieg as the door was closing after them. 

5 

Les was alone in Jane Street. His face was a 
little more lined, his eyes deeper. He smoked 
cigarette after cigarette, at last picked up a book 
of short stories by a young writer he admired. 
He opened the volume idly. 

“1Everyone knows of the talking artists. 
Throughout all of the known history of the 
world they have gathered in rooms and talked. 
They talk of art and are passionately, almost 
feverishly , in earnest about it. They think it 
matters much more than it does. 33 

Les put down the book. Em . . . the party 
last night . . . how can she . . . once she was 
like me . . . God, how he hated Greenwich 


56 


SINBAD 


Village! Letters. He knew Howard’s hand¬ 
writing. One lay open on the table from which 
he had taken the book. He tried not to look at it. 

“My darling, 

“When can you come again? The only mys¬ 
tery is flesh—ideals are manageable—they are 
for fools -■" 

The words blurred. 

She has always put me between her and life. 
Living in a well of emotion, remote from con¬ 
sequences. Jealous of what she doesn’t give. I 
can’t fight it. Breasts whiter than snow . . . 
wings like curved flames . . . funeral pyre of 
stars . . . 

His tears were real, anyway. 

He was alone. I must think. His eyes that 
sometimes glowed blue with kindness were pale 
and vague. Howard was the type he abhorred. 
How can such a thing be? I have—I have— I 
can't think. She has—she would stop at nothing 
to see me feel. Reduce the beloved object, expects 
from me what she’s killed, not kind even to those 
at her mercy . . . 

Les sobbed once, wiped his eyes. He tried to 
overcome his grandiosity—to condemn Em. It’s 
about good enough for her. No. She’s mine . . . 
little Em . . . The heavy muscles hardened 
under his coat. 

“God damn that jumping jack!” 




THE OCEAN 


57 


No. This is 1923. It’s not done. 

He went out to walk. 

6 

Why does one talk . . . Les never had 
realized that Em’s medium was not words. Even 
when he saw her trembling and weeping at a 
canvas he realized it only intellectually. He was 
continually aghast before her incomplete revela¬ 
tions. 

I am worse. I say more but I talk like a 
stockbroker. We must understand things to¬ 
gether. His heart shook. He remembered her 
coming to him. Eyes giving . . . breasts point¬ 
ing . . . body calling . . . something not in 
words . . . 

Five o’clock. Into the crowded street. He 
escaped from the Empire State Trust Company’s 
building as from a mountain. It’s not that 
long-legged crane. He’s only an irritant. I 
should have shown Em that I love her. Poor 

4 

little child . . . 

Les climbed the stairs slowly. Oh, how I hate 
talkytalk. In the half-light that filled the long 
comfortable room Em sat, bent over his desk, 
her face lying in her arms. Her frail shoulder- 
blades heaved. 

“Sweetheart-” Les touched her shoulder. 

She raised her white tear-blotted face. “Em, 
I want us to see things clearly.” Em’s eyes 



58 


SINBAD 


cannot look like that! Where . . . appeal to 
death . . . how can she . . . 

“This is a fine time to begin,” she cried 
savagely. 

“We must look at things now as we shall in 
another year from now.” 

“Thank you, Mr. Drane.” He removed his 
hand from her shoulder. She’s childish. He 
resented her indulgence in irresponsible emotions 
and tried to envy her, but his pride would not 
let him. “You ought to realize what I feel, no 
matter what I say,” she sobbed abruptly. 

“I understand, Em.” 

“Oh, but you don’t-” 

“Em, my God-” 

“You make me feel I’m a horrible creature.” 
She moaned carelessly. “If you cared for what 
I—you only think about it, about what other 

people will think-” She wanted to condemn 

herself beyond argument. He was cruel, too. 
He wanted to subjugate her so he could be kind 
to her. 

Les seated himself close to her. He did not 
touch her. 

“I don’t care what people think, dear. It’s 
not you, but your suffering that hurts me. I 
don’t feel the same things, but I feel. Can’t you 
see that?” Another lecture. Where are the 
students? I’ll write tracts next. I’ve held her 





THE OCEAN 


59 


in my arms. Nights . . . roses pale in sleep . . . 
white ghosts of clouds . . . 

“Yes, Les, I see that you suffer in your own 
way.” She straightened up, drew a long breath. 
Diagrammatic emotions—lost in his own gen¬ 
erality. “Les-” 

“Yes, Em.” Why did we give up so much 
for each other? 

“If you’d only kissed me instead of getting 
hurt. So many times.” She spoke dully. 

”1 can’t get over things as quickly as you, 
Em.” His lips quivered. He controlled his 
voice well. 

“I’m sorry,” said Em. 

“Em, can’t you-” he began timidly. 

“I’m unfitted for any human relationship, 
Les.” Her eyes suddenly swam with tears again. 
Suspend yourself from his strength—ugh! 

“Oh, Em-” He reached swiftly toward 

her, but she evaded his gesture. 

The bell rang. Les seized his hat and opened 
the door. 

“Good evening,” said Howard. “Should you 
people like to go some place to dinner?” 

“I’ll bring candles.” Em left the room. 

“Sit down,” Les invited. 

Em returned with lights. As she set them 
down the vague glow made her face look strange. 
Her hair was smoothed, her cheeks rouged. 





60 


SINEAD 


“I have an engagement.” Les carefully; 
creased the crown of his hat. 

Howard hesitated, almost contemptuously. 

“Don’t look at me like that, Howard.” Em 
laughed uneasily. “It’s just plain pip. Les and 
I both have it. I’ll go with you.” 

7 

Sunday morning. Les rose from the breakfast 
table and sought his hat and ulster. Em spoke 
timidly. 

“I’ll come too, Les, if you’re going to walk.” 

He halted, in his eyes a mixture of fear and 
desire. 

“I’d love to have you.” 

Something in his gaze made her ashamed for 
them both. 

They found the park. They walked silently 
side by side. Each held an effort to overlook the 
other’s misunderstanding. They tacitly strolled 
away from the thronged roads. A pool. Bare 
tree beside it. Twigs grasping stiffly at empti¬ 
ness. Em and Les stopped and stood together 
on the path. 

“We ought to be frank, Les.” She glanced at 
his face with merciless interest. She was afraid 
of menacing unreality. He has the secret of 
permanence, she thought. 

“I’ve tried to be frank,” he said. 

“Inside yourself maybe, but not to me, Les.” 


THE OCEAN 61 

“You don’t want frankness, Em. You don’t 
want to know me.” 

“Nor you me.” 

Moment by moment their sense of virtue was 
deepening their resentment. Les’s fear con¬ 
quered the surface of his hurt. 

“Yes, I do, Em. I’ve tried-” 

Em was blindly rebellious. She did not want 
her emotion to be crystallized. Self-righteous 
—nobody loves me, she cried within herself. Les 
was unable to go on. Nobody capable of tender¬ 
ness. Love of a savage. He hated sex. If it 
must be like this I don’t— Human pity . . . 
hurt . . . 

“I must have intensity, Les—somebody to let 
go with me. Oh, can’t you see? You make me 
feel as if there were nothing real.” 

“I must have love that is kind. Love that 
recognizes me, that is not ugly. My reality isn’t 
cruel—turgid. I’d rather have nothing than 
that. I-” 

“Rather than me, is what you mean!” Her 
face was drawn and in her widened eyes lay 
humiliation and triumph. “Well, I’ll have 
something —no matter what!” She left him. 

Les felt alone, in the park. All these 
people . . . Like Em—I’m not either kind. 
He was helpless but dumbly certain of his needs. 
If I have to lose her . . . He could almost have 
hated her now. I can’t bear it . . . 




CHAPTER IV 
A POINT OF TIME 


“Never, never, I return: 

Still for Victory I burn. 

Living, thee alone YU have: 

And when dead Yll be thy Grave.” 

William Blake— (Rossetti MS.) 

1 

Em sometimes feared Howard. She wished 
his detachment were often less complete. His 
contempt of morality seemed to her a little false. 
We’re all dependent on each other, she thought, 
why pretend to ignore it? 

His tall frame was grotesque. His aquiline 
profile, his receding brow—almost beautiful in 
its clear line—his eyes. They were his most 
compelling feature: translucent greenish-brown, 
abstraction and elation, a half-mad look. When 
he was stirred their focus relaxed. He suggested 
capacity for abandon, and irresponsibility. His 
hands were ugly—hopelessly sensitive. He 
invited one to evoke his emotions, yet one knew 
he would disdain consequences. 

Les’s solid blue eyes. 

62 



A POINT OF TIME 63 

Howard did not consider her. I consider him , 
she thought. 

“Drane is too frank in his worship to make it 
valuable.” Howard was secretly a little afraid 
of Les. His effort to despise him showed it. If 
one feels, it's real though it hurts, Em thought 
as she watched Howard walking beside her, his 
angular features, his sweet bitter mouth, curved 
and hard. But how can he say such things? 
(“Don’t believe in good taste,” he had once said. 
“Involves too many modifications of my self- 
expression.”) Now he continued, taking jerky 
puffs at a cigarette. “A woman like him would 
have made him like you.” 

Em looked at Howard malignantly. 

“You shan’t talk this way.” 

“Pooh! He’s a great man. I’ve said nothing 
against him. I’m speaking of you. Must be 
terrible to take oneself seriously, though. The 
most frightful of all decisions is to decide not to 
decide.” Howard didn’t want to have to respect 
the feeling between Em and Les. Why doesn’t 
he give her up? “I can’t live on vicarious excite¬ 
ment myself.” 

“He’s an angel,” vowed Em. 

“Exactly.” Howard grimaced. 

“I hate you.” Tears stood in her eyes. 

“Better try him again. He’ll never fail you. 
But don’t forget that what’s invariable is dead.” 


64 


SINBAD 


2 

Les had said nothing more to Em. They lived 
as before, except that Em didn’t paint now. On 
occasion Les and Howard met naturally, modern 
style. Conversation on safe matters. Em was 
out a great deal. Les took longer and more 
frequent walks. When they were together they 
made each other unhappy. Em protested her 
theories of reality and denied to herself her 
feeling of guilt. But she couldn’t talk about 
Howard. It was Les’s fault. He wouldn’t let 
her, she told herself. 

Morning and Empire State Trust Company. 
Streets stuffed with people. Les swung rapidly 
along. Why do I go to work? Two kinds of 
fools, men and women. I’m both kinds. I can’t 
be cynical- 

One of the lesser bank officers greeted him. 

“It’s a fine day, Mr. Drane.” 

“Yes, indeed.” Yellow bearded sun . . . beams 
dripping a golden stain . . . leaves falling like 
dark tears . . . The difference between a man 
and a woman is a child. Reefs of clouds . . . 

He was in the high building. Elevators. 
Crowding employees. 

“Mr. Sutton wants to see you, Drane.” 

Glass door marked “Vice President,” bald Mr. 
Sutton, narrow nose deflected, eyes slumbering, 



A POINT OF TIME 


65 


“human dynamo.” Les opened the door. He 
had seen the man twice before. 

“Sit down. Your work has shown considerable 
judgment. We’d like you to run out to Chicago 
I and get the statistical men started off the right 
foot in the new branch we’ve just acquired—this 
is confidential as yet—formerly the Dearborn 
Trust Company. It’ll take you about a month 
or six weeks. An allowance will be made you 
for expenses while away.” Mr. Sutton made a 
note on a silver-bound memorandum calendar. 
“You’d better start Monday. Let’s see, Friday 
—take today and Saturday off and that’ll give 
you three days. Turn your work here over to 
young Babbitt. Good luck.” The Vice President 
smiled and held out his hand. 

“Gee, I wish I was in your shoes!” Young 
Babbitt surveyed Les respectfully. “It’s the first 
step up for you, all right all right.” 

3 

Boy and girl, they sat in their living-room. 
Pale gray walls, purple painted floor and black 
rugs. On the low couch, pillows—red, green, 
heavy blue, purple, black. The old candlesticks 
on the mantel were dull. Through an archway 
Em’s workshop, her pictures, tense erotic colors 
harshly juxtaposed. Manuscript neat on Les’s 
desk by a window. The place held the affection 
of familiarity. 


66 


SINBAD 


Both were thinking of his coming departure. 
I wonder if he cares. He won’t talk about it. 
Les watched the blackness quietly fall. Leopard 
night put on your mottled cloak. Moon passing 
along the street of heaven. Good to be together 
in the dark. Forever and ever . . . Em 
safe . . . Tenderness had them both. I can’t 
lose her. I can’t leave him. Candles burning 
by their bed in the next room. They could 
scarcely see each other in the dim light, she like 
a slender wraith, he formless and motionless. 
They drew unconsciously closer together. 

“Em.” His voice was quiet. 

“Yes.” 

“I feel that my going—that-” 

“Yes, dear.” 

“If you could only be-” 

“Be you.” 

Pain sprang at their throats. They talked on 
in the night. Something between. Neither 
thought of Howard. No anger. Both drew 
away sick. 


4 

She found Howard pacing up and down his 
apartment. 

“I’m glad you’ve come at last, Em. It’s been 
two days since you were here.” 

“Don’t be silly, Howard. Les is going to 




67 


A POINT OF TIME 

Chicago day after tomorrow. I wanted to see 
something of him.” 

“I must wait for my turn.” 

Em flushed. 

“That’s not very nice, Howard.” 

“I don’t bother over niceties, except in art.” 

His eyes would not meet hers. Em was elated 
at his displeasure. She seated herself and studied 
first one Japanese print on the wall and then 
the other. 

“They’re lovely,” she remarked. 

“Yes, I’m sophisticated.” His lips curled. 
“Superiority of a limited view.” 

Em smiled. 

“You’re not very good-tempered, are you, 
sonny?” She leaned back gracefully and clasped 
her hands behind her head. “You’re a cute 
child, though,” she added. Howard still paced 
the room. Em contentedly lighted a cigarette. 
The energy of the instant was food to her. 
“Howard-” 

“Shut up,” he growled. 

Her apparent humility had been the momen¬ 
tary inversion of intense vanity. She stood up, 
coldly. 

“It’s not necessary to be any cruder. I’m 
going.” 

Howard stopped in front of her. Her sudden 
malignant antagonism fired him. His greenish- 
brown eyes were sharp and excited. Though 



68 


SINBAD 


his glance touched her long white neck, her 
defiant head, her breasts rising and falling 
beneath her smock, he scarcely seemed to see her. 

“You’re not going.” He seized her roughly 
in his arms, crushed her to his body, kissed her 
mouth and eyes. When Howard was stirred by 
her, physically or emotionally, she felt that 
he was wrapped in the experience of himself. 
Even now she was depressed at being shut out of 
him while she was the stimulus of his passion. 
But a sort of morbid pleasure and power came 
to her as she saw him react to her so intensely, 
though he disavowed her. She did not resist. 
He said, “You are going to stay with me 
tonight.” 

5 

A bright clear cold morning, dust of the city 
in the sunlight like fine bronze powder. 

Em turned a corner swiftly and almost ran 
into the arms of Genevieve. Mark and Blanche 
were with her. Genevieve, no matter how studied 
the appearance of her dress, invariably gave the 
impression that she was carelessly groomed. She 
was fond of dull colors and severe lines, velvets 
which seemed a little shabby, and fur trimmings 
that were barbaric without being smart. 

“Why, how are you, dear?” She exclaimed in 
pleased surprise. “We haven’t seen you for a 
long time. What is the matter? Have you 


A POINT OF TIME 


69 


given us up for some new group of our younger 
intellectuals? Is Les well?” 

“He’s in Chicago,” said Em. Her eyes did 
not meet Genevieve’s. 

“In Chicagor exclaimed Blanche. “Well, I 
like that! Why in the world didn’t he let some 
of his friends know? You’d better look out or 
he’ll find some other girl out there. I’d never 
have let him go alone. You know I said to 

John-” Blanche giggled and began her 

monologue that no one ever listened to. 

“Well, my feelings are hurt.” Genevieve’s 
frank eyes confirmed her words. 

Em hesitated guiltily. 

“He had to go suddenly.” 

“I know-” Mark paused, his gawky figure 

drooping. Almost passionately helpless, his 
aggressive tolerance for others was an uncon¬ 
scious excuse for self-tolerance. 

Genevieve was disconcertingly definite. 

“Are you going, too?” 

Em hesitated again, and answered timidly. 
She could lie gorgeously, but hated puny and 
implied falsehoods. 

“I—think so.” 

“Well, don’t you serve us the same way, dear. 
Let me know in plenty of time and we’ll give a 
farewell party. I shan’t know what to think if 
you don’t.” Genevieve spoke tartly, but her 
smile and eyes were affectionate. 




70 


SINBAD 


“How is Stuart?” asked Em. She drew a long 
breath. 

“Terribly depressed. His last story was 
promptly turned down. He’s trying to get 
another started. Good-by, dear.” She kissed 
Em. 

Mark tore himself away from Blanche and 
took Em’s hand. He smiled without speaking, 
his sensitive mouth trembling slightly. 

“Bye-bye, darling,” said Blanche heartily. 

“You know, Mark, I think that John-” Her 

monotonous voice floated back as the three 
passed on. 

Em walked slowly in the other direction. 

6 

“Dear Les , 

“I'm going away with Howard. It will he 
easier to go before you get hack. 

“If you had wanted to talk to me before you 
left it might have been different. You've never 
thought of what Fve wanted , always of what I 
ought to want. We're going to Europe. I can't 
bear New York. I haven't told anybody about it. 

“I think you can't understand why I suffer 
because you can't share it. Les , I was never 
allowed to do things from childhood, not even 
little things like to ride or swim. Always things 
decided for me. I've been trying to give myself 
to someone ever since I grew up, but I never 



71 


A POINT OF TIME 

found anyone who wanted me—the me that I 
know. People always like m,e at first and then 
get afraid of me. Even you have been afraid 
of me. I don't think he will. I want to be loved , 
but for what I am. 

“Perhaps I don't know what love is. I guess 
it's oneself. I know you've been jealous, when 
you knew Fd stayed with Howard. Eve been 
jealous of you too, but only of your past and 
your vagueness about it. I wouldn't have cared 
what you did when you were with me. I couldn't 
be jealous of anything I knew. Then it would 
be mine . 

“I can't work. Maybe I can afterwards. I 
hope you can finish your novel , too. Oh, Les, I 
will always love you. Em." 


7 

“Hear Em, 

“I have been thinking over your letter all night . 

“I don't feel that Howard Story is really part 
of things at all. It is something more than that. 

“Your resentments toward me have been subtly 
growing since we first knew each other. I could 
have lived your life or mine, but not both. I 
cannot be alternately loved and despised. I hate 
the atmosphere of formless horror that has 
gradually come to hover over us. You've grown 
more and more pitiless in wringing reactions 
from me. One occasion for hurting me was as 


SINBAD 


72 

good as another. You’ve never had any com¬ 
punction in striking the smile from my lips. 
You have traded on my potentiality for sacrifice, 
you have fed my fears for you. You always 
found ultimatums easier than kindness. You 
resent that I’ve never given you dramatic cause 
either for loving or punishing me. Yet you’ve 
insisted that I he happy as a tribute to you, that 
I build for you to tear down. You admit no 
resources you do not share, Em. Peace kills you. 

“This isn’t blame or criticism. I’m sure you’re 
as much of a person as I. I’m only trying to 
explain things to myself. It may sound like a 
homily, but I can’t help it. I feel that you are 
in my life. I can’t get away from the feeling. 
Don’t ever do the one thing that is irrevocable, 
Em — please. Won’t you call on me at any time, 
for anything? 

“I don’t know how long I shall stay in Chicago. 
I may be here a couple of months more. 

“Les.” 


8 

He went down to the street to mail his letter. 
The act of walking. The call! Go away. Desert 
wastes. Vultures wheeling far above me. Tun¬ 
neled growth. Leaves tingling with life. She 
not with me. Swamps. Pleading arms of 
mist . . . pain of God ... Of such were the 
real and excellent reasons for the expeditions 


A POINT OF TIME 


73 


that had made his reputation. No. I can’t run 
from life. Must take myself. A place to lie 
down. Baby on her breast . . . He stopped 
suddenly. Not anguish of hunger . . . 

“I think my vanity is hurt,” he said. 

He must write his novel. When he got back 
to his room at the hotel, he picked up some 
manuscript from his desk. Sheets of paper, 
what about? I remember it was half done. 
“Chapter XII . f Let me go—let me live / she 
sobbed piteously. He smiled. r You think you 
must be understood. Comprehension has nothing 
to do with love / " Damn the fool book! What 
did I mean? He threw the pages aside. They 
together. Throbbing ship. Night . . . He 
beat his head with his fists. If he drives her to 
death I’ll— But what for? It will be too late. 

Figures were kind. Long columns, the longer 
the better, reams, no time to think. 

The Chicago manager had been kind. 

“Mr. Drane, I’ve written Mr. Sutton how 
extremely pleased we are with the work you’ve 
done while with us. I thought it only your due.” 
The manager paused and scrutinized Les. “I 
don’t see anything to laugh at, Mr. Drane.” 

“That’s why I’m laughing.” 

Drink. Make life purely physical. Other 
women. Whores. The girl at Howard’s party, 
she loves me. Ladies. Champagne-colored silk 


74 SINBAD 

and chiffon. Breasts like marble ... No. 
Oh, Em, Em- 

He gave up his passionate assumption of right. 
Finding relief in his self-contempt. I wanted to 
draw her to harmony with myself. To subjection. 
Terrible. She’ll not die now. Merciful God 
forgive. No God. How could I, how could 
I— Accept the body but refuse the spirit! A 
master unknown to me . . . 

Perhaps the romantic never gets hurt enough. 



BOOK II: HOWARD 


“I may be allowed to observe, that his honour, to my 
great admiration, appeared to understand the nature of the 
yahoos much better than myself. He went through all 
our vices and follies, and discovered many which I had 
never mentioned to him, by only supposing what qualities a 
yahoo of their country, with a small proportion of reason, 
might be capable of exerting; and concluded, with too 
much probability, how vile, as well as miserable, such a 
creature must be.** 

Jonathan Swift — “Gulliver** Travels** 









CHAPTER I 

* THE ISLAND IN THE MOON 

“Schwarz — You're just making believe! 

Lulu — You're making believe yourself, it seems to me. 
I make believe? What makes you think that? 
I never needed to do that.” 

Frank Wedekind — “Erdgeist" 
(Trans. S. A. Eliot, Jr.) 


1 

Home again! Liberty drowning in the harbor, 
Manhattan mushrooms sprouting in the haze 
(lower Broadway dividing them like a gash), 
murky snakes of water curling round the low 
island—the big ship slouches up to the pier. Tiny 
tugs and thin hawsers tease her into the slip, and 
gently and imperceptibly she is captured, bound 
helpless to the land. High above, on the upper 
deck, Howard and Em silently watched the 
waiting crowd on the dock. No familiar face. 
Em shivered slightly. 

“Cold? Suppose we go on shore here.” 
Howard’s tone was careless. He did not look 
at her. 

Bustle, luggage, customs inspector, porters. 

“Get me a taxi.” 

i. 


77 


78 


SINBAD 


“Here you are, sir.” 

Streets of New York. Clanging cars, autos, 
whish! trucks thundering, screaming fire-engine, 
scattering people, black crowds, all dead, tramp, 
tramp, thud, thud, something steady and awful. 
Over all, this giant rhythm. A dark face in the 
mass on the sidewalk, Dhas Mitra, “Elephants!” 
Through Em’s mind stride the lines of a young 
New York poet. 

“With huge diaphanous feet , 

March the leaden velvet elephants s 
Pressing the bodies back into the earth” 

And the sky overhead was dull, the buildings 
stood stiffly, remote and unfriendly amid the 
impudent din. The throbbing beat grew dim 
again. To Em the city seemed vague. It be¬ 
longed to Les. She and Howard did not speak 
until the taxi drew up before Howard’s apart¬ 
ment. 

“We’ll stop here, for the present at least,” he 
said. Dead gray walls, Matisse etching, two 
priceless Japanese prints, conspiring degradation 
and fear. Em was dumb. Did I ever belong 
here? Howard pointed to a door. “Take off 
your things in there.” 

Em entered the bedroom and looked with 
wretched interest in the mirror. Her chin seemed 
more pointed, her cheek-bones accentuated. She 
had almost no color. 


iTHE ISLAND IN THE MOON 79 


2 

Em and Howard at Esther’s. Dingy cellar 
restaurant, flaring orange curtains, tables with 
rickets, spineless chairs, green candles, bad 
drawings by habitues. Skimpy table-of-the-host 
dinners, demi-celebrities. The place now favored 
by emotional dilettantes. 

Conversation nine feet high! 

“Dada is a snort— junge Kunst, pooh!—all art 
is music—Kokoscha—instead of giving you 
people gives the feeling people give him—” 
Howard seldom tried his brilliance on Em now. 
She ate laxly, almost without hearing him. But 
others were listening. His voice was raised a 
little. “Matthias Griinewald—de Sade with a 
brush—necrophiles—wax tears on a coffin— 
beauty is digestion—Renoirism—tra, la, la, la, 
la, la—don’t you think so, Em?” 

“What did you say, Howard?” 

“Why don’t you listen? Might learn some¬ 
thing.” His voice, keyed lower, was hard. 
Something ached in her. The smell of Greenwich 
Village revolted her. Chicago. I wonder if I 
loved everything he did, she was helplessly mus¬ 
ing. Not like Howard’s contemptuous under¬ 
standing. “ Independants —Andre Lhote—sugar 

teats— refuses -” The monologue across the 

little table became indistinct to her again. 
“Intransigents— communards —painting with a 




80 


SINBAD 


broom —blague ” Howard’s voice had be¬ 
come saw-like. “Why in hell don’t you pay some 
attention to what I say, Em?” 

“I’m sorry, Howard.” 

His face cleared at her unpassionate tone. 
Howard was just back from Europe. 

“Cezanne—form and color have no-” he 

resumed complacently. 

“You’ve said that before, Howard. I don’t 
care about the pathos of the artist’s expression, 
or impression. I can’t paint now.” Cezanne 
again! She longed for the liquid darkness out¬ 
side. Les would- 

“It’s because you’re losing your interest in it. 
Good thing. Art’s a perversion in women, any¬ 
way.” Howard laughed. Em bit her lips. He 
offered her a cigarette but she shook her head 
without looking at him. He was ashamed for 
her recent failures. When she did well, some¬ 
thing in him hurt in resentment, but he boasted 
of her to others. He despised the blatant conceit 
of other men in sex. He wanted a woman who 
did him more subtle credit. “You ought to etch. 
Give you outline. You need it.” He lighted his 
own cigarette contentedly. “What did you think 
of what I said about Kokoscha?” 

Her voice had stiffened. 

“The same thing I thought the last time you 
said it. I can’t understand your idea that color 
and form are different things. I don’t care 





iTHE ISLAND IN THE MOON 81 

whether Kokoscha gives you people or the feeling 
people give him—you give me neither.” 

Howard flushed. 

“I’ll take back what I just said. What you 
need is a new man.” 

“I need something besides what I get from 
you,” she flamed. 

“Ditto,” said Howard viciously. He was a 
little frightened at his own words. 

Life was more concrete to Em. She was glad 
of pain. It was definite and familiar. 

3 

Two days later they ran into a large group of 
Howard’s friends uptown. Too late to evade 
them. 

“Of course you know Miss Tyler. She was 
nice enough to lunch with me today.” No impli¬ 
cation that it was not a casual occurrence. 

Em remembered that twice recently when the 
door-bell rang Howard had refused to answer. 
She wondered how many people he had written 
to about their relationship while they were 
abroad. She greeted his acquaintances distantly. 
Howard’s eyes menacing. 

“Come right with us!” invited Carmen Stubbs 
raucously. Whorey-aired goodsoul, she was a 
perpetual virgin, yet kind. “It’s Celia’s twenti¬ 
eth birthday. We were just going into Boutelle’s 
here. We can get hooch. They know me. Just 


82 


SINBAD 


got paid for a bum story and I’m going to spend 
some of it on the dear child.” Pale delicate- 
featured Celia St. John did not even smile. 

“All right,” acquiesced Howard without glanc¬ 
ing at Em. 

The party filed into the restaurant. Two 
tables in an alcove were pushed together. 

“Me at the head of the board for once,” an¬ 
nounced Carmen huskily. She patted the chair 
at her right. “And the blessed damozel must sit 
here.” Celia seated herself composedly. “Come 
up here, you.” Carmen beckoned to the Great 
Modern Critic, who had again honored the 
occasion with his presence. He glanced appre¬ 
hensively around, visibly relieved at the absence 
of the Hungry Soul. The Critic seats himself 
at Carmen’s left. 

Howard is next to Celia, Em between him and 
Jobson, the novelist. Mitra, at Jobson’s side, 
produces an olive-colored crumpled cloth from 
his coat pocket and calmly winds it about his 
head as a turban. 

“And I go to the foot of the class for once.” 
The rafters ring with bullofbashan little Stieg’s 
proclamation. He seats himself impressively 
opposite Carmen. None of the others notice him. 
A passionate poetess, very fat and with hairy 
upper lip, is at Stieg’s right. Next her is Tanaka, 
smiling and silent. Les’s girl acquaintance sits 
between the Jap and the sculptor, Pierre Gou- 


THE ISLAND IN THE MOON 83 


vain. She has candid eyes. There is considerable 
chatter and laughing as the party settles round 
the tables. Gouvain turns to the Critic. 

“It wass you who haf said zat my weemen are 
fat, eh?” He rumples his black hair reproach¬ 
fully. 

The Critic (more impressive than when he 
spent the evening of Howard’s party in the 
clutches of the Hungry Soul) turns his blue 
fish-eyes on Gouvain, but his reply is inaudible in 
the general prefatory discussion of food. The 
ancient ascetic waiter, in full keeping with the 
faded hangings and shabby dignified furnish¬ 
ings, is bending discreetly over Howard and Em. 
Howard has ordered liberally. She shakes her 
head. 

“Madame cares for nossing?” 

Howard answers shortly. 

“You bring the food and we’ll decide who’s to 
eat it.” 

Synthetic cocktails, eagerly gulped by all save 
Em, the two Orientals and the Critic. Stieg 
breaks out (stentorian tones). 

“All modern fiction can be traced to the influ¬ 
ence of three men—my next book on Stendhal, 

Dostoievsky and-” ( The Great Critic is 

beginning to speak and the company frowns 
resentfully at Stieg. Carmen says , “Sh-h-h.” 
Stieg,, evidently overawed for the time , subsides .) 



84 SINBAD 

Carmen.— ( Smiling to her left. ) Shoot again, 
please. 

Critic.— ( Speaks quietly and insolently. His 
first words are heard only by those near him, but 
the others soon listen in silence .) The revolt 
against naturalism, through the neo-Stend- 
halians, such as, for example, Bourget, while a 
psychologic throw-back to Stendhal, still clings 
to the pseudo-scientific manner of Zola. The 
revolt is, of course, wider than this, and may be 

seen, too, in the- ( The company grows 

restive. Whispering at the other end of the 
tables.) 

Passionate Poetess. — ( Known to her friends 
as P. P. Is heard audibly repeating her last 
verses to Tanaka.) 

All his desire 

Lisped in his yearning blood, 

His hungry hands upon her gleaming thighs— 

Celia. — ( Laughs musically, her face like a 
Botticelli angel.) How much farther did he go? 
(The P. P. glowers. Tanaka stops smiling for 
the first time during the meal.) 

Howard.— ( Smiles at Celia, replies to some - 
thing the Critic has said during the confusion.) 
Sternheim! Pooh! The expressionists belch 
instead of write! 

(Em, her hands clasped tightly in her lap, 
stares steadfastly at her plate.) 



THE ISLAND IN THE MOON 85 


Critic.— ( With hauteur, raising his voice 
slightly.) In order intelligently to understand 
a movement one cannot overlook its genesis. 
The wave of naturalism that routed the Goethe- 
Heine romantic lyricism split up, as I see it, 
under three principal influences: Whitman, 
Nietzsche and the Russians- 

Stieg. — (Eager, voice like a hallo.) A new 
book of mine, three- 

Carmen. — (Hoarsely.) Be still, Stieg. 
(A dds briskly with caj oling cheerfulness.) Why 
won’t you kids listen? 

(Em has not touched the food Howard has 
insisted on placing before her. Her face suggests 
vicious despair . The novelist, his mouth full, 
addresses her.) 

J obson. — ( Enigmatically.) Good royalties! 
(This is his sole remark during the whole course 
of the meal. Em glares at him without reply . 
Jobson bends obliviously over his plate again . 
His Hindoo neighbor adjusts turban and ex¬ 
claims explosively.) 

Mitra. — Elephants! (Then, leaning behind 
the busy Jobson, he whispers caressingly to Em.) 
Little tiger! (Em does not appear to hear.) 

Critic. — (Resuming Johnsonian sway with 
practiced hand.) All Russian literature is pre- 
or post-Pushkin. When he, with Gogol and 
Lermontov, brought- 

Stieg. — ( A Imost screaming.) The three- 






86 


SINBAD 


Half a Dozen Voices. —Shut up! Down, 
Fido! Chloroform! etc. 

Gouyain. — ( Clasping his head wildly.) What 
ze hell! I shall go—how you say?—dement. 

{During the melee, the girl with candid eyes 
leans over the table and speaks Em. Howard 
is intent on a whispered conversation with Celia, 
and does not hear.) 

“How is Mr. Drane? I haven’t seen him for 
weeks.” 

Em was very pale. 

“He’s in Chicago.” 

Stieg’s feelings were evidently hurt, because 
the P. P. was cautiously consoling him with more 
verse. The Critic held the floor again. 

“In Italy the reaction away from the grandiose 
gestures of Carducci, D’Annunzio and Pas- 
coli—” (Stieg trembled at the mention of a 
trinity, but the P. P. soothed him) “the spiritual 
voracity of Papini and the fanatical ethicism of 
Croce-” 

Em ceased to hear the cadenced tones. Brrh! 
Not their equal in sophistication, not Howard’s 
equal! He trying to reduce me as an artist! 
Never himself except in jest. This is their 
Bohemia! Bloodless. Cynical. Ugly and false 
life. Death of art. I’m more than all of them. 
I’m honest—not—I’m—I’m— I wonder how 
well Les knows that girl with nice eyes. Les. 
He’s the only one good— A burning wave 




THE ISLAND IN THE MOON 87 


flooded her. Les! Where are you— She 
breathed quickly and her eyes were suffused with 
unshed tears. Mad—better to die— The people 
and sounds all grew dim. Howard still whisper¬ 
ing to Celia— Em rose unsteadily from the 
table. 

“I’m going, Howard,” she said in a hysterical 
undertone. 

The Critic paused in the middle of a word and 
looked peevish. 

“Why dearie-” Carmen expostulated 

breathily. 

Howard turned. 

“You can’t go now.” He spoke rapidly in a 
low voice and tried to pull her down. Her face 
was pale and she jerked her arm from Howard’s 
grasp. Pierre Gouvain’s beautiful eyes sent her 
a look that made her grateful. “You win,” said 
Howard with slow malice. He turned away 
from her and resumed his talk, trying not to 
acknowledge his confusion even to himself. She 
could humiliate him. 

Mitra shot Howard a glance of feline hate, but 
was immediately again impassive. Trembling, 
Em adjusted a fur scarf about her neck. She 
tried to keep from seeing the eyes turned upon 
her, especially the eyes of Les’s girl friend, who 
looked frank and sympathetic. 

“Are you ill? Shall I go with you?” 



88 


SINBAD 


“No!” Em’s mouth quivered and she almost 
whimpered as she hastily left the table. 

The P. P. was holding Stieg’s hand. 

“I hope you-” Celia’s cool saint-eyes 

lingered on Howard’s. 

“I’m not going,” he said shortly. 

Carmen beckoned to the waiter. 

“More wine, son,” she whispered shrilly. 

As Em moved between the other tables toward 
the door, the group she had left relaxed into 
attitudes of relief. The Critic settled himself 
with dignity and resumed his oration. 

“The rejection by the younger Scandinavian 
writers of the realistic formula-” 

4 

Em rushed rapidly, almost running, along the 
slate-colored side street. The cold wind flapped 
her dark skirt against her knees. She carried 
her gloves in one hand, her bare fingers felt like 
ice. The sky was unendurable, a gray that had 
no blue or pink in it, gray like a dead dilution of 
lampblack. The whole world was terror. 

No happiness or unhappiness, only pain, 
nothing strong and beautiful. I am an artist. 
Oh, I need— Where shall I seek? These 
people. The froth of life. This Howard with 
no mercy. Oh, Les— The servant of peace, 
dead in calm— Em was crying but she did not 
wipe away her tears. 




THE ISLAND IN THE MOON 89 


She stopped short. I wonder if Howard and 
Celia went— She can’t be hurt. Em hugged 
her own power of being hurt. She had to con¬ 
vince herself of life. I can get peace alone. I 
don’t want— The sky is dead. 

Oh, I won't die, she said to herself. It was 
almost as if she had spoken the words aloud. 

Several children paused in their play to look 
solemnly at her. Em turned and started for 
Howard’s apartment. 

5 

The thin sunshine thrust through the over¬ 
hanging haze and waved its broad smoky-silver 
fans of light at all the strange pale windows of 
the city. In Howard’s apartment the small 
clock ticked garrulously to the secretive walls 
and to the something of silence that filled the 
rooms. 

Celia’s birthday had been too symbolic. 

Em and Howard both hurt for days. This 
morning after breakfast she sits wordless by a 
window. Medium height and slim, feet under 
her, body curved nicely into a chair. Lilac smock, 
flood of hair, too-heavy brows, too-thin nose, too- 
narrow-long chin, all lovely in profile. Les is 
right. Tongues in cheeks. No art. Life without 
conduct. The way to death. She was using 
Les’s thoughts unknowingly. Howard sulks, 
coarse wiry hair untidy, avian head thrust for- 


90 


SINBAD 


ward, walking back and forth with graceless 
steps. Wish she were never anything but profile! 
Em disenchanted! Rot! What pretentiousness! 
He felt he had been uselessly humiliated. Not 
enough, Em thought. Savagely helpless. 

The clock ticked blithely and shamelessly. 

“How long is this going to last?” he jerked 
out finally, pausing to light a cigarette. 

“I don’t care how long it lasts, Howard.” Em 
did not look up. She was seeking for his 
weapons. “I’m perfectly satisfied.” 

“You look it,” said Howard with a sarcasm 
that he knew to be feeble. 

Em could be grim. Howard’s vanity needed 
that their relation should mean more to her than 
to him. I must be like them, she told herself. 

“Well, I am. I never expected too much. 
You’re only an experience, young Mr. Story—I 
knew that when I took you—and you’ve been 
one.” 

It seemed sinister that Em should be flippant. 
Always so direct. I’m the one— Besides, he was 
suffering from silence. Howard was not coldly, 
but temperamentally superficial. He could be 
brilliant only when he was in the ascendant. He 
knew that Em had cried alone in the night, and 
now he looked at her with mingled curiosity and 
fear. 

“What are you talking about, Em?” 

“W omen are cut off from different experiences. 


THE ISLAND IN THE MOON 91 


I don’t mean to be. You’ve taught me some¬ 
thing. Not much. You play one tune, but it’s in 
different keys, you know. So my time’s not en¬ 
tirely wasted, is it?” Her face was hard. Oh, 
how can I, she groaned soundlessly. No real 
words to reach anyone. To feel only through 
hatred. To test life by its pain— She was 
tired of it. 

Howard was silent. Tinkle of the door-bell. 
Em rose. A telegram. Howard received the 
envelope and handed it to her. She opened it. 

“Oh, Howard!” She burst into tears. 

“What is it?” he asked with nervous impa¬ 
tience. 

“My pictures, my pictures!” 

“Those we left in Paris with Lepelletier? 
What’s happened to them?” 

“ Yes! He got three hung at the Munich show, 
and one received honorable mention! You 
remember the one, the purply-orange thing? 
Dear old Lepelletier! He always believed in 
me.” 

“Well, what are you crying for?” Howard was 
not gracious. 

“For delight,” she wept. 

“You seem delighted,” he remarked cuttingly. 

Em was oblivious to his vexation. 

“I am! Oh, I am, I am!” She laughed 
hysterically, tears still in her eyes and running 
down her cheeks. “Oh, Howard, I’m so happy!” 


92 


SINBAD 


She seized him in a bear’s hug and danced him 
unwillingly around the room. Em felt vindicated. 
This was the answer to her doubts. I can work 
now, she thought joyously. She was already far 
away from all pettiness. Life was resolved once 
more. Now her pride was untainted with artifice. 
She felt, without suffering. She loved Howard. 
The world was real again. I wish Les knew— 
“Isn’t it gorgeous?” She released Howard and 
dived contentedly among the feathery cushions 
on a couch. Her cheeks had a thin color and her 
eyes were softly brilliant. She lighted a cigarette 
and began to smoke briskly and with gusto. 

Howard’s sex vanity had always, half-con- 
sciously, kept him from showing Em his reluctant 
admiration of her superiority as an artist. His 
etchings were not fine. They were workmanlike. 
That his temperament was for life and not for art 
hurt him. He felt maimed, and like a cripple he 
wanted to torture something for it. His appre¬ 
ciations were keen enough to see that Em’s 
passionate particularness in feeling was real art, 
and that his intellectual mood-stuff was formula. 
This added to the bitterness of his half-acknowl- 
edged jealousy that tried to destroy her, that his 
own art—which he secretly despised—might live. 
Now he was chafed by the addition of European 
tribute coming so soon after the light words she 
had used about his importance as a lover. His 


THE ISLAND IN THE MOON 93 

mightiness was raw, and he chose words with 
deliberation. 

“Not surprising,” he said carelessly. “You’re 
in style. Women can adapt. I admit you’re 
clever, but of course this fad you excel in won’t 
last.” 

Her beautiful teeth still showed in a happy 
smile. His jealousy was too obvious to take 
seriously. She almost loved him for it. 

“Howard’s mad. 

And I’m glad, 

And I know what to p-l-e-a-s-e him,” she sang 
impudently. Something in her again wanted her 
life with him. She wanted it simple. Howard 
never was. He had always to be playing to an 
audience in himself. He was afraid of his own 
self-criticism. He did not smile. 

“Emotional language without meaning, a 
Rodin technique applied to nothing-” 

“You’re very kind, Mr. National Arts Club¬ 
ber!” Em tossed her head with lofty sarcasm. 

“Kindness is an attempt to focus attention on 
oneself. I forego that to point out that being 
mentioned by a small bunch of esthetic quacks in 
Germany isn’t immortality.” Howard’s green- 
brown eyes sparkled and his mouth recovered its 
curve. He was tearing now, not being torn. 

Em pointed a teasing finger at him. 

“Sour grapes! Sour grapes! You formulated 
old etcher. You’re jealous. Booh!” 



94 SINBAD 

* “I wish I were,” he retorted cruelly. 

She flinched, but continued to smile. 

“Well, let’s go out to lunch and celebrate, 
anyway. You might have thought of that, and 
not I.” 

Em’s elation was broken but not dead. She 
still hoped, but belief was tainted. He didn’t 
mean it, she insisted to herself. I hadn’t been 
very nice to him. I don’t think he meant it. But 
she could no longer whole-heartedly delight in 
her good fortune. 

Howard felt absurd. The blatancy of his out¬ 
burst made him ridiculous to himself, and vicious 
toward Em. To be justified he had to discover 
the falseness of her art. He began to study her 
work with a warped bitterness of criticism. 
Complacency is the beginning of the end, he 
thought. At least I’m decently dissatisfied with 
myself. 


CHAPTER II 

MIRROR MAZE 

*Let them fight it out, friend! things have gone too far . 
God must judge the couple! leave them as they are — 

—Whichever one’s guiltless, to his glory, 

And whichever one the guilt’s with, to my story.” 

Robert Browning —“Men and Women” 

1 

Em did not find herself able to achieve a single 
canvas that pleased her. Day after day slipping 
away, winter skies, bare trees brushing them, 
cloud-dust flying. I feel like a housekeeper. 
Intellectually she still believed in herself, but 
Howard was shaking her confidence in her work. 

“You’d better take my work-room at the back,” 
Howard had offered. More than once, trying to 
paint, she heard voices in the front rooms. I 
wonder why he doesn’t call me. “I must get on 
with my plates, Em.” Whole days away from 
her. “I’m working over at Algeria’s studio.” 

Once Em walked by Algeria’s place. Howard 
—a key in his hand—on the steps with Celia, 
Carmen and Mitra. Em almost slunk along the 
opposite sidewalk. Mitra saw me. I wonder— 
She unconsciously avoided that street afterwards. 

95 


96 


SINBAD 


Dinner at Esther’s again. Green candles still, 
and orange glow. People, strange to Em, bow¬ 
ing to Howard. After the meal, as she preceded 
him from the room, he lingered to speak to several 
at one of the tables. One girl pretty. Friendly 
voices, pleasant laughter. He did not call Em 
back. Why doesn’t he introduce me? 

Em’s ponderings were not obvious. She was 
too well established as a painter. She had fed too 
long on Les’s pride in her as a woman. Once 
a little warmth in her heart. Howard wants to 
be with me — But his fear of touching—his 
absences. She was not subtle in rationalizing her 
instinct. She became remote, avenging wall. 
Howard kept her in as much precariousness as 
she had kept Les. No fire to warm, even to hurt: 
not even pain to grasp at. Significant that Em, 
of all people in the world, said nothing. 

Again Howard yawned at dinner. Frankness, 
even in boredom, never repelled her like uncer¬ 
tainty. 

“Why can’t we take some of your friends to 
dinner next time?” she suggested. Em looked 
frail as she removed her gloves and threw back 
the fur collar of her cloak. 

“Can’t afford it. We can have Celia and Mitra 
in tomorrow night, though, if you like.” 

“All right,” listlessly. I’m producing nothing. 
(Her little fund realized on occasional former 
pictures was gone.) I wish I could— Can’t live 


MIRROR MAZE 


97 


on honorable mention by ultra-modern nuts or 
praise from esoteric radicals. Having no money 
irked Em. You buy self-respect. Stuff! I 
mustn’t be petty. 

Mitra and Celia came. A yellow turban was 
rolled this time. Celia Burns-Jonesy in gray 
against the gray walls. Cigarettes and Howard’s 
j umping artyart talk, what j ewj aw! Celia crept 
closer to him on the couch. Mitra rose from the 
other side of Howard and stood near Em. His 
bronze eyes were fixed on one of the Japanese 
prints. 

“That was a wild party you gave us Saturday 
night, Howard.” Celia’s cool languid voice 
reached well. “I don’t remember all of what 

Tod Smith did to me. It must have cost you-” 

I suppose he nudged her, thought Em, glancing 
furtively at Mitra’s face. 

“I’m trying to work these days. My last 

things-” Howard’s voice was too loud. 

Mitra whispered intensely to Em under the cover 
of it. 

“Celia very ’fraid of me, won’t gabble about 

you, Jewelstar, tiger love tiger, don’t talk-” 

His beautiful swarthy hand touched her hair as 
he pointed to the Japanese print. 

And Em did not talk. Howard and Celia were 
murmuring, she fingering his coat-sleeve. The 
clock ticked stolidly. Mitra, a half-smile on his 





98 


SINBAD 


purple lips, drew a chair before Em, seated him¬ 
self, and joined her silence. 

Howard and Celia pause uneasily, and she 
drawls: 

“You two aren’t very boisterous!” 

Mitra rises, unwinds his turban, takes up his 
hat and coat without a word. Em rises also. 
Celia pouts. 

“You surely aren’t going so soon?” 

He nods. 

“Well, you can just go on then. I’m not 
coming till I get good and ready.” 

Em walked into the hall with Mitra, and from 
there to her room. She did not return. 


2 

Rain. Gray threads of rain tangling the 
clouds to the earth. Streets and buildings 
enameled with a thin drab film. Shut in together. 
Howard was peevish, irritation of the tricked. 
Em’s restraint was ominous. 

“Em, why in the devil do you pull off stunts 
like last night?” 

Em’s eyes half-closed. I have vanity without 
pride, she thought, with an inner sob. 

“Why don’t you introduce me to your friends?” 

“Last night is a good reason for not introduc¬ 
ing you to any more of them.” 

“Why don’t you tell them we’re living to- 


MIRROR MAZE 


99 


gether?” Quibbling, why doesn’t he fight? 
Suffering and anger. 

“They both know it.” 

“How many more know it?” Babyish lying 
by implication. 

Howard hesitated almost imperceptibly. 

“I suppose a lot of people.” 

“How many have you told?” Em clenched 
her teeth. Concealing it! Wants to keep from 
making the affair irrevocable. I loathe him! 

Howard blustered. 

“Em, you make me sick! What in the world’s 
the use-” 

“Whom are you ashamed of, yourself or me?” 
she demanded hotly. 

He winced. 

“Who said I was ashamed of either of us?” 

“You say it with every breath—sneaking and 
hiding like a pickpocket!” 

He lighted a cigarette nervously. 

“Will you listen-” 

“Don’t worry any more. I’ll never go where 
I’m likely to meet any of your friends again.” 
Her tone was like a knife. 

Howard was not a master of cuttlefish psy¬ 
chology. He knew he was safer in attack than 
in defense. 

“What about Drane?” he demanded suddenly. 
“Do you suppose he is yearning for everybody 
in New York to know you left him for me?” 


> 


> 






100 


SINBAD 


Em realized that it was a trick, but she was 
grateful to hear Les’s name on his lips. She even 
ignored the conscious crudeness of the words. 
She felt that Howard had despised her for her 
own frankness about Les. Any directness was 
priceless, and the half-truth served now. The 
vision of Les’s taciturn vanity supplied the rest. 

“No, Howard,” she answered more quietly. 

He studied her before continuing. 

“Don’t you think a person like him would be 
hurt by a thing like that?” 

“Yes.” Her face cleared. 

“Then what are you ragging me for?” In¬ 
jured voice. “It’s just possible I was considering 
what you would want, if you ever thought about 
it, as well as myself.” 

Em distrusted kindness in Howard, but his 
irritated tone reassured her. She never resisted 
confession. 

“Howard, I’m sorry I acted the way I did.” 
She went to him. 

Triumph always made him amorous. He kissed 
her roughly. Her lips hurt. She felt she was 
living. Em did not always love friction, but she 
always feared evasions. 


3 

“I believe in being frank about expenses,” 
Howard said frequently. “Money’s the last 


MIRROR MAZE 101 

convention to go. When you want anything, 
say so.” 

Em’s vanity had chafed under the daily point¬ 
ing up of his independence. The impression of 
sincerity in his continued remarks had at first 
disarmed her, but notwithstanding her intellec- 
tualizations she had become unwillingly sensitive. 
With Les—their food and common possessions 
had seemed unobtrusive and kindly. 

She and Howard were in a cozy old neighbor¬ 
hood restaurant, not extensively patronized, but 
faithfully clung to by the knowing. Em was in 
good spirits. Her eyes were calmer. A canvas 
had balked all morning and then suddenly started 
well: she had worked up to dinnertime. She was 
in a mood to enjoy the cheerful little tables, the 
low buzz of talk, the friendly clatter of plates 
and cutlery that came to them as they went in. 
It had been raining outside and the window 
beside them was silver with mist and darkness. 

“What are you taking, Howard?” she asked 
gayly as they seated themselves. 

“Mutton.” 

“I want guinea-hen and mushrooms. They 
cook it beautifully here. Don’t you like it?” 

“Yes,” said Howard. 

“Then why don’t you have it, too?” Em’s 
smile tonight lighted her face that had grown 
somewhat thinner. 

“Too expensive,” he answered shortly. 


102 


SINBAD 


That’s because I haven’t been working, thought 
Em in a surge of wrath. No money! She 
remembered her home as a girl. Conventional 
men! They’re all the same. The proprietress 
came to their table. She was stout and motherly 
with mournful affectionate eyes. Her husband 
cooked and she acted as waitress. 

“What is you would like for your dinner?” 
she asked solicitously. “Papa has made very 
nice the guinea-fowl tonight.” 

“Roast mutton,” replied Howard, not look¬ 
ing up. 

Em studied the card. 

“I’ll have some toast and a glass of milk.” 

“What! So little yet!” The woman smiled at 
her sadly and demurely. 

“I thought you wanted guinea-hen.” How¬ 
ard’s voice was irritated. 

“Toast and milk,” Em repeated, smiling 
determinedly at the proprietress. 

“The luxury of martyrdom added to the virtue 
of economy,” he sneered as soon as they were 
alone again. 

Em tried to think. Why can’t I be detached— 
No use, I don’t want— It must come out. I 
suppose it’s because we’re all wrong about every¬ 
thing. 

“I can’t see you pay too much for your privi¬ 
leges as a lover, Howard.” 

“Oh, I expected that!” he retorted viciously. 


MIRROR MAZE 


103 


Her heart bounded at the prospect of contest. 
Howard's indifference chilled her, his cruelty 
never. Her courage rose to life. It is life. 
Anything but negation. Pain is life if intense, 
anything, only not stasis. I do pay too much! 
thought Howard with deep vexation. Why these 
domestic topics! Money was a nuisance. She 
knew he was poor just at this time. He gave 
her what he had. Why demand a heroic gesture 
to accompany it? Her face was startling in its 
unyielding, his was ugly with anger. 

“Why, hello, Em! When did you get back? 
You’re a nice one not to let your friends know 
where you are! Why don’t you write a fellah 
when you go away? How come you do like you 
do! Where’s Les? Good evening, Mr. Story.” 

Em and Howard had been too intent on their 
animosities to notice the approach of Tit Miller. 
He made a round graceful gesture with his hat 
as he reached their table. 

Toby was with him. 

Em was obviously discomposed. 

“Les is in Chicago,” she said evasively. 

“Hello, dear thing.” Toby smiled amorously 
and his eyes misted. “Mr. Story.” He nodded 
slowly to Howard. “Can we horn in on your 
tete-a-teteV 3 

Tit had already seated himself without waiting 
for an invitation. Both glanced curiously at Em 
and Howard, whose attitude of domestic alter- 


104 


SINBAD 


cation had convicted them of intimacy far more 
unanswerably than a blatant love-passage could 
possibly have done. Em smiled recklessly. 

“Why, of course, children. Come and join 
our happy family party!” 

Howard forced a wry smile. He despised 
Em’s friends. She will encourage anything, if 
enough adulation goes with it, he thought con¬ 
temptuously. 

When Tit Miller’s weak fear of those stronger 
than himself was sufficiently disarmed, he could 
be a charming unintellectual companion, full of 
nonsense and quaint antics which had little rela¬ 
tion to the esthetic solemnity that annoyed and 
disgusted strangers. But he was inclined to 
malicious revenge where his vanity was hurt. 
And Em’s mood of heedlessness welcomed the 
signs of antagonism which Howard now showed 
toward him. She secretly did not care if Tit told. 
She hoped he would. Howard should acknowl¬ 
edge her. I don’t care for anything. 

“You two people look rather glum,” remarked 
Toby. He was sensitive as to himself, but his 
intellectualizations about others were just crude 
enough to miss the fine points of every situation. 

“We were just in the midst of a friendly argu¬ 
ment.” Howard’s voice was faultlessly careless. 

“A friendly quarrel, you mean!” exclaimed 
Em defiantly. She did not despise diplomacy. 


MIRROR MAZE 


105 


she was afraid of it. Anything clean-cut—even 
a wound. They’re my friends, anyway. 

“Maybe Mr. Story’s jealous of your honorable 
mention,” Tit suggested elaborately. 

“That’s it. You’re clever, Mr. Miller.” How¬ 
ard’s amusement was sinister. 

“I am!” Tit replied, with a rather blank 
flourish of his tasteful hand. 

“You ought to have honorable mention for 
just being, dear girl,” said Toby unctuously, 
touching her arm with his childish fingers. 

“If you will all excuse me, I must go.” 
Howard spoke insolently, warning in his green 
eyes. 

Em could have let him go, had he been bored. 
But his malignity called to something in her. A 
natural delight in hating was alive. She rose 
uninvited. 

“Well, good-by, kittens.” She smiled with 
bravado and anticipation. 

“Where are you living now?” Toby asked 
fervidly. 

Em laughed nervously and glanced at How¬ 
ard, who was paying their bill. 

“We—” she began and stopped. “I’ll look 
you both up.” She left her toast and milk 
untouched and followed Howard out of the 
restaurant. “What is the matter with you?” she 
asked rashly as she fell into step with him along 
the dim pavement where the light seemed to 


106 


SINBAD 


dissolve here and there and make glowing stains 
on the purple night. 

“I don’t intend to discuss it in the street.” 

Her face was flushed and exultant. She must 
feel that she was alive, even by pressure and 
strain. 

“Isn’t Tit cute and ridiculous?” 

“Very! Charming lyric note!” Howard’s 
sarcasm was vindictive. 

Em was preparing her resources. There was 
wisdom in forcing Howard to defend himself. 
Isn’t it childish? But ignoring things is dying 
while you’re alive. If only big things were alive 
too— Her stride showed something like exalta¬ 
tion as she walked beside him. 

“And Toby is a dear.” 

“He’s an erotic fish,” said Howard savagely. 

They had reached the apartment. Em lifted 
her head gallantly as they entered the door. 
What do I want with her? Howard thought. He 
could not cope with her! It depressed him that 
he needed anyone. It was unpleasant to feel 
that her presence helped him to believe in himself. 


CHAPTER III 

DILUTING THE NEEDS OF MAN 

“Knowledge is not our proper Happiness. Whoever will 
in the least attend to the thing will see that it is the gain¬ 
ing, not the having, of it, which is the entertainment of the 
mind” 

Bishop Butler —(Sermon XV) 

1 

A friendly morning. Howard’s apartment 
looked its warmest in the copious diffused light 
that flowed all around and through the quiet 
rooms. The over-restraint was less emphasized 
in the soft intimate radiance that seemed specially 
made for human use and comfort. In the living- 
room the subdued exquisite colors of the two 
Japanese prints glowed gently against the gray 
that was no longer somber but silvery and alive, 
and the beautiful simplified exaggerations of the 
figure in the Matisse etching were more familiar 
and believable. 

Howard, in a dark dressing-gown, moved 
silently about the flat. Without warning he 
opened the door to Em’s room and thrust in his 
head. Em was awake. He came and sat on the 

107 


108 


SINBAD 


edge of her bed. She lay prone, her slender arms 
above the bed-clothes, her thick gleaming hair 
spread out over the pillow like a rich tapestry. 
Her high small breasts stood hard and round 
under the covers. 

She did not resist the reality of his approach. 
A soft pink tinged her cheeks, grateful for his 
seeking. Clutching at life, loving surprise, her 
eyes sought his and her lips parted. He bent 
over her and covered her mouth with his own. 
She forgot that his belief was only in self-expres¬ 
sion. He had come. Joy in being needed. She 
wanted to be destroyed for his need. She gave, 
obliterated in being. 

Howard always left her psychically unap¬ 
peased. The opposition of his egotism summoned 
her, only to retreat within itself. Now he raised 
himself on his elbow and scanned her face. She 
was yet breathing rapidly from emotion and her 
eyes were wide and still. He avoided her drink¬ 
ing eyes. 

“Em, you’re a beautiful object when you’re 
aroused,” he said reflectively. His thin features 
and light green-brown eyes glowed with esthetic 
satisfaction. “Love is an artistic discovery.” He 
tried to think of her only as this. He wanted to 
escape what seemed to him the moral distortion 
of life. 

At times she felt that his gaze saw through her 
clothes, and at such times she became happy for 


DILUTING THE NEEDS OF MAN 109 


a moment; but now his obliviousness to the 
personal element in their experience degraded 
her to herself. 

“Don't look at me without seeing me,” she 
whispered. 

Howard frowned. He wished her desire fixed 
on him 3 resented her private emotions and re¬ 
sponses. When she spoke like this she seemed 
less beautiful to him. He could not bear any 
ugliness in others. Their defects made him think 
of his own inadequacies. As a man who was 
primarily an artist, he refused to be responsible 
for himself. 

“I’m analyzing love.” His detachment pre¬ 
vailed. “Men and women should come together 
for a perfect moment and then part forever. 
That would be the only poetical love affair.” 

“Howard!” Em frowned also. 

“The memory might endure. The love won’t 
—that’s an illusion. Only something completed 
is beautiful.” 

Em drew slightly away from him and he sat up. 

“Nothing completed is ever beautiful. It’s 
dead,” she said quickly. “You’re afraid of 
everything that’s alive.” Her cheeks glowed. 

Howard studied her unmoved. He tried to 
convince himself that Em was too much the 
woman ever to achieve the artist’s detachment. 
He enjoyed his implacableness toward her, the 
severity of his moral contempt for himself. Em 


110 SINBAD 

was alone. When I feel, he’s only curious, she 
thought bitterly. 

“Cowardice is admirable in the lover,” he 
returned slowly. “Moral courage becomes the 
solitary. Your artistic perceptions all go into 
painting, Em.” 

“I don’t see how you can simplify life like 
that, Howard.” Emotionally formulated, she 
thought, just as Les is intellectually. “Physical 
intimacy is too big. It’s weakness—so it’s moral. 
It’s by touching that we exist.” 

Howard hated Em’s concrete personalness 
because it intruded into his own type of sensual 
mood. He needed her for a chorus to his own 
sensations, not to be occupied at the same time 
with her excitement. He had never allowed him¬ 
self to face any conception of human obligations. 
Life aside from art was distasteful to him. When 
Em was most the woman he despised her, but 
there was a hardness and courage in her painting 
that he envied. He attempted to disassociate 
her personality from her work. It left him con¬ 
fused. He rose and lighted a cigarette. 

“Both of us care only for ourselves,” he 
returned irritably. “Why blur things? That’s 
the trouble with you moderns, even in art.” 

Em was sitting up in bed now, her chin in her 
hands. Her hair fell in a cloud about her. 

“There’s something more-” she began 

earnestly. 



DILUTING THE NEEDS OF MAN 111 

“Pooh! Romantic twaddle—woman a burnt 
offering on the altar of man’s lust!” 

Em’s eyes flashed. 

“Howard, you’re unjust-” 

His hawk face hardened. 

“It’s a crime to be just to you,” he said. I 
don’t count, she thought, sick and angry. Always 
showing desire for me, and then this— Les at 
least— “You’ve been spoiled by Drane’s incense¬ 
burning,” Howard added mercilessly. 

2 

Howard was away two days. Em had now no 
money of her own, and ate insufficiently. She 
was nervous. Intellectually she did not blame 
him, but something deep down in her did. About 
seven o’clock in the evening the latch clicked and 
he let himself into the apartment. Em was 
sitting silent in the soft dusk. Amid the imper¬ 
fect obscurity of the twilight objects were vague 
and unsubstantial. Howard’s movements were 
rapid and decisive. 

“Hello, disembodied spirit! What about din¬ 
ner?” He wanted to forget the tensions and 
unpleasantnesses which had separated them. 

“I’ve had something,” she replied. 

“You look like a picture by Bonnard.” 
Howard approached and seized her in his arms. 
There was about him an air of aliveness and 
satisfaction that compelled. His unmoved 



112 


SINBAD 


artistic analyses of Em’s states of suffering or 
pleasure never extended to himself. When he 
was undergoing pain he was oblivious to every¬ 
body, enwrapped in an emotional preoccupation 
that admitted no possibility of examination. 
When his desire was aroused Em’s impulses were 
unnoticed. Now she was far away. He kissed 
her passionately and unknowingly. When she 
allowed him, he experienced her as an impersonal 
beauty, and his eyes were dim and bright with 
an almost religious intensity. “What were you 
thinking about, Em?” 

“You.” 

Howard felt concretely, but was carried by 
generalities. At this moment he was lost in 
himself. His hands were upon her. 

“You’d better think about me!” 

She shrank from his breath on her face. I’m 
forgotten, she thought. A shiver ran through 
her body. 

“Don’t, Howard.” She pushed him away. In 
the deepening darkness she could distinguish the 
greenish glitter of his eyes, the bitterness of his 
lips. Her unwillingness aroused him. He 
crushed her in his arms. Her flesh hurt. I will 
not be snatched. She thrust out with all her 
strength and struggled free. They stood up, 
facing each other in the gloom. 

“You’re becoming very sophisticated, Em,” 


DILUTING THE NEEDS OF MAN 113 


he protested, vexation in his tone. “You would 
delight a voluptuary.” 

The appraisal humiliated her more than his 
disregard. She stood erect, voice opposing. 

“I’m human at least.” 

Howard’s raptness had passed. 

“I’d rather be sophisticated,” he gibed. 

“Sophistication is like breeding,” she said 
coldly. “You’ve got to forget it to have it.” 

He always felt that her emotional nakedness 
was vulnerable, but her infrequent mental flashes 
put him on the defensive. He shrank where he 
could not invade. 

“And so I haven’t any?” 

“You can see others cruelly enough, Howard, 
but you never see yourself.” 

“Are you going to dinner?” 

“No,” she rejoined. She turned on the light 
and picked up a book. 

He took up his hat and stick and went out. 


3 

Howard returned almost at once. Em looked 
up in surprise as he unlocked and swung the door 
open. He was manifestly changed in mien, and 
she gazed at him curiously. In his hand was a 
letter with a Paris postmark. 

“I forgot a portfolio I want,” he said defen¬ 
sively. He stood more upright than usual but 


114 


SINBAD 


turned his hat over and over in his hands, and 
his glance was placating. 

Em was disarmed by his awkwardness. The 
fact of his coming back meant something to her. 
He looks like a little boy! 

“Is it this one?” She held up a leather case. 

He stretched out a hand without looking. 

“Thank you.” Their eyes met. “I found a 
letter from Algeria in the mail-box.” 

“Yes?” Em smiled slightly. 

“She says that-” 

“What does she say?” Em asked with frank 
interest. 

Howard drew a long breath. 

“Well, that— I might as well read it, I 

suppose-” His hat fell unnoticed from his 

hand. 

“Please do,” said Em excitedly. 

Howard sank into a chair and drew the letter 
from its envelope. Em drew her own chair 
nearer and leaned her elbows on the table 
between them. 

“ ‘O Dearestie—’ You know she talks like 
that,” Howard interpolated glibly. “ T’ve just 
had a tea (for artists and others) and Felicien 
Le Gros brought Wiegand (!) and of course I 
showed him your etchings , and he said quite 
spontaneously that they were not only masterly 
(definitif) as to technique but showed charming 
mood as well. So now go and crow over 




DILUTING THE NEEDS OF MAN 115 


unfriendly New York. I hope to—’ That’s all 
about me—my things.” He looked up quickly 
at Em, his eyes exultant and his pale cheeks 
slightly flushed. 

The pathos in his elation over a word of praise 
made Em warm. His poor etchings! That’s 
what makes him so cruel. Any little scrap of 
commendation from Europe. This was really 
nothing. She thought of her own elation over 
Lepelletier’s telegram. She looked at Howard 
almost compassionately. 

“Won’t you take me to dinner after all, 
Howard?” 

“Sure,” he agreed comfortably. 

On the way to a familiar restaurant they met 
Pierre Gouvain. Howard greeted him warmly. 

“Won’t you go to dinner with us?” 

“Wiz plaisir.” Gouvain’s eyes drank Em’s 
profile. She turned to him as Howard led the 
way into the restaurant. 

“Who is Wiegand?” she asked. 

Gouvain smiled charmingly. 

“Oh, he iss one French etcher, fery good of ze 
second rang, and much amateur, of weemen.” 

A cheerful waiter bustled forward. Their 
favorite table was empty. Howard was gay 
during dinner. 

“I heard from Algeria today, Gouvain.” 

“You haf? What does she do?” 


116 


SINBAD 


“Why, she seems to spend her time boring 
people with my stuff.” 

“Read what she says, Howard,” begged Em 
kindly. 

“Oh-” 

“I am fery interest,” vowed Gouvain earnestly. 
Howard read the extract. “It iss verite, ze 
etchings of technique are wonder, and haf ze 
mood,” agreed Gouvain generously. 

Howard smiled contentedly. He did not 
notice Gouvain’s ardent eyes seeking Em’s. 
Neither did Em. I understand him, she thought. 
He’s only an artist, and he can’t be one. She 
felt that Howard had been made little and dear 
to her again. At the restaurant door they said 
a cordial good-by to Gouvain. 

Howard looked down at Em. 

“Shall we go back to the apartment?” 

“Yes,” she whispered, putting her arm 
through his. 

Her look of longing revived his contempt. 
He was in the mood which his timidity seldom 
allowed him, and believed in himself. For the 
instant he was the great artist and Em, primarily 
woman, was outside his life. He encouraged the 
profoundness of his momentary illusion, knowing 
unadmittedly that it could not last. He wanted 
the sweetness of condescending to Em. His 
gentleness did not spare her. She was one of 



DILUTING THE NEEDS OF MAN 117 


many. Em felt something vaguely unpleasant 
in his amorousness. She had come no nearer 
success with Howard—not so near as with Les. 
I must have someone, she thought. Em was 
discouraged. I’m frightened. 


CHAPTER IV 

THE SLEEPWALKER 

“A handless man a letter did write, 

A dumb dictated it word for word: 

The person who read it had lost his sight, 

And deaf was he who listened and heard .** 

George Borrow —“The Bible in Spain** 

1 

Sleet and snow made Em feel apart and 
cheerless. She rose late and put on her oldest 
clothes, garments she had worn before she knew 
Howard. Without yet saying it to herself she 
knew she was going to talk to her friends whom 
she had so long neglected. She prepared, and 
sat down alone to her coffee and toast: ate with 
her hat on, her cloak on a chair near her. She 
felt cold, unreal—alien. She did not quite under¬ 
stand the instinct that had kept her away from 
her own. It was not that, even before the inci¬ 
dent with Tit Miller and Toby in the restaurant, 
Howard had refused to have anything to do with 
Em’s circle. 

“Your dancer friend moves like a blind snake,” 
he had said spitefully. 

“But he’s not the only friend I have, Howard.” 

118 



THE SLEEPWALKER 


119 


“And the technique of seduction your Toby 
person employs would nauseate a prostitute.” 

“They’re all sincere and lovable dears!” she 
had declared with unreasoning emotion. 

“I don’t care for a retinue of lovable non¬ 
entities. You require them because they adore 
docilely and don’t compete or criticize. A few 
honest peers would be good for you.” 

Hostile silence had ensued. Em had cut 
herself off from his friends, and now hers were 
passing. He wants me to lose them, she thought 
this morning, go back to them after he’s through 
with me! I won’t drive them away. Putting it 
into words had not quite revealed her need to 
herself, but she finished her breakfast and went 
out into the storm. 

Genevieve still lived on the third floor of the 
ancient tenement, and Em rang the door-bell 
three times. A window was opened above her 
and Stuart peered out. 

“Why, hello, Em!” he called in surprise. The 
window closed with a bang and he ran down and 
admitted her. He preceded her up the stairs. 
“Where have you been keeping yourself?” He 
turned his pale regular profile, with its prominent 
chin, toward her as he spoke, but his kind bored 
eyes did not meet hers. 

“I’ve come to see you,” she replied fervently. 

“I see you have!” 

Stuart was in the habit of lounging when at 


120 


SINBAD 


rest, and now he walked before her with a stoop. 
He opened a door. Genevieve was working at a 
commercial drawing. Mark Leighter slouched 
his ungainly length on the couch. There was 
Blanche Dixon. Also a plump young Jewess 
with shining black hair and faint dark down on 
her upper lip. 

“Hello,” said Em, rather timidly now. 

“Hello!” Blanche heartily and Mark with 
gentle kindness. Blanche rose and kissed Em 
boisterously. 

Genevieve did not move. 

“We heard from Tit and Toby that you had 
been in town some time.” Genevieve’s voice and 
phrasing were as precise as she alone could 
make them. 

“Do you know, Mark, that John said to me 
last night. ‘Where is your friend Miss Tyler?’ 

and I said-” Blanche seated herself beside 

Mark and, while he smoked successive cigarettes, 
continued a soliloquy that was both audible 
and confidential. Mark, with his negative sub¬ 
mission, was her especial outlet. She only asked 
not to be repulsed. 

The Jewish girl had remained unnoticed. 

“Emily, this is Cicely Frank,” Stuart said 
rather awkwardly at last. 

Em responded to the introduction and then 
slowly approached Genevieve’s chair. 

“I’ve come to tell you something, Jen.” She 



THE SLEEPWALKER 


121 


seated herself on the floor beside her friend. 
“I’m living with Howard Story.” Genevieve 
glanced nervously at Cicely and murmured to 
Em, but Em would not be deterred. “I’m not 
going to sneak any longer, Jen. Anybody can 
know it who wants to.” She looked around 
defiantly. 

The surprise had not died out of Genevieve’s 
eyes. She bent over Em. Her lips trembled a 
little. 

“But what about Les?” she whispered. 

Em did not lower her voice. 

“I’m not married to Les!” There was silence. 
Stuart frowned gloomily. Mark smiled affec¬ 
tionately at Em. Even Blanche was speechless. 
Cicely Frank looked steadfastly at her own 
hands. Em was saying to herself, They’re mine 
again! I’m glad I have— But beneath her 
thoughts was a deep relief in confessing Howard 
—a lust for release. She had forgotten that it 
would hurt Les. I won’t be alone. I won’t. Her 
fear of being isolated from her associations, her 
resentment of Howard’s caution! All were 
looking at her kindly again. The surprise and 
affront of her going away without telling them, 
her avoidance of them since her return—all was 
forgotten. I love them! “I’m going to tell 
everybody Howard and I were in Europe to¬ 
gether.” She did not realize that her vanity was 
healed by the feeling that she was betraying 


122 SINBAD 

both Howard and herself. I’m with them again, 
she said to herself. 

Genevieve’s voice had almost its old affec¬ 
tionate note. 

“We thought you were in Chicago with Les,” 
she said quietly but a little stiffly, smoothing Em’s 
hair with her hand. “We wondered why neither 
of you wrote. And when Tit and Toby saw 


“Yes, Em, I said to John only last week, 
'John, not a soul has heard a word from Em 

Tyler and Les Drane and we all-’ ” No one 

in desperation ever insulted Blanche, her good 
intentions were so much in evidence and her 
benevolence so obviously genuine. 

Mark’s eyes brimmed with tears, but he 
continued to smile. 

“We understand, Em,” he said in a trembling 
voice. 

“I’m going to make coffee for everybody.” 
Stuart rose suddenly and stalked unsteadily 
toward the little kitchen. As he passed Em she 
seized his hand and kissed it. Stuart had been 
emotional, for him. 

It seemed like old times. The past devoted 
intimacy returned. Em’s thin face grew 
tranquil. There’s somebody, even if Howard 
doesn’t— At last she rose to go. 

“I’m so glad to know you. I admire your 
work so much,” said Cicely rather timidly. 




THE SLEEPWALKER 


123 


Em was smiling like her former self. 

“Good-by, dears!” She kissed her fingers to 
them. 

As the door closed after her, Genevieve, with 
the emptied coffee cups, followed Stuart into the 
kitchen. 

“I’m worried about Les,” she said gravely. 
“I hate women! I’m fond of Em, but in some 
ways she’s just like all the others—myself 
included of course.” 


2 

Resenting Howard’s secrecy more and more, 
Em developed a passion for confessing their 
relation. All kinds of people, people not inter¬ 
ested. I wonder what there is in me that does it. 
Am I wrong somewhere in me ? She hunted up 
Tit and Toby. They were eating chop suey that 
Toby had made in his room—a big garret 
crowded with laboratory apparatus. A tumbled 
bed was in one corner. A fine piano laden with 
dust and scattered sheets of music. They 
admitted her enthusiastically, and Em sat down 
on a rachitic chair while Toby laid out an extra 
plate. 

Tit had a mind adapted to ingenious subtleties, 
but incapable of any simple fundamental impres¬ 
sion. When he was at his worst he was deliber¬ 
ately obnoxious. After they had drawn up to 
the table again, he bent his flat almost negroid 


124 


SINBAD 


head toward her, eyes peering through thick 
glasses, an oblivious smile on his curved beauti¬ 
fully red lips. 

“I no more liking that Howard gent you 
introduced us to, Em,” he joked, snickering at 
her inanely. “See! The finger of scorn!” He 
pointed a long narrow finger close to her face. 

She sprang from her chair. 

“If you have no more insight than a Hottentot 
I wish you’d go,” she flared, her eyes blazing. 

Tit was perturbed but he was also extremely 
egotistical, and obstinate. He had always re¬ 
sented Les, and took a secret pleasure in the 
unfaithfulness Em had never confessed to him. 

“I may have quite as much insight as some 
of your more wooden-minded friends, Em,” he 
retorted sullenly, his near-sighted eyes spiteful. 
“What you allowed us to infer the other night 
at the restaurant was that the whole thing was a 
light affair. You spoke about it lightly enough. 
Nobody made you leave Les. You followed your 
own taste in the matter. If you wanted a cosmic 
pathos to envelop the circumstance you might 
have indicated it. As a matter of fact there’s 
been nasty gossip about you and I’m the one 
who tried to put a stop to it. I-” 

Em was implacable. 

“If you don’t go, I shall.” 

With an evil sweeping gesture, his eyes filled 
with tears, Tit seized his hat and went. 



THE SLEEPWALKER 


125 


Toby’s eyes rested on Em with moist sym¬ 
pathy. He had never dared aspire to her before, 
but the feeling that she had thrown herself away 
on Howard made him stealthily avid in his 
attentions. Em regarded Toby affectionately, 
but with complete understanding. He leaned 
toward her. 

“Dear girl, you know that I—” A loud knock 
sounded on the door. Toby drew back and his 
mouth was petulant. “Damn!” he ejaculated 
with genuine zeal. 

Reluctantly he opened the door and his irri¬ 
tated peering gaze discovered Michael, who 
stepped buoyantly into the room. Michael was 
devoted to a conception of democracy which was 
contradicted by everything in his temperament 
and appearance. 

“Why, hello, Em!” he exclaimed in a pleased 
voice. “Jen told me you were in town. Where 
are you staying?” 

“With Howard Story. I’ve just been telling 
Toby and Tit.” 

“I hoped—” Michael’s eyes were passion¬ 
ately commiserating. “It’s your own business, 
Em. We all love you and Les both—no matter 

—what-” He dragged out the last words 

with a painful effort, and immediately changed 
the subject. 



126 


SINBAD 


3 

It was late. Michael’s appearance had made 
a formal friendly group of three and they had 
chatted kindly. Dusk came before they realized 
it. Michael looked at his watch. 

“Let’s go to Esther’s for dinner.” 

“All right.” Em agreed instantly. Unnoticed 
in her lay a silent hope that she would see some 
of Howard’s friends. 

Toby acquiesced wearily. “I’ll go, but I can’t 
eat anything.” 

At Esther’s Em without hesitation approached 
a table occupied by Carmen Stubbs and her 
group. 

“Hello, dearie,” called Carmen’s husky dis¬ 
sipated voice. 

Em paused intrepidly while Michael and Toby 
went forward and seated themselves in a distant 
corner of the room. Gouvain turned his fine 
dark eyes to her. Little Stieg caressed his 
mustache and imperial preparatory to violent 
speech. The Hungry Soul shifted her raptorial 
glance from one man to another, deciding on her 
prey. Tanaka smiled obscurely. Mitra’s eyes 
bent on his plate. Pale little Celia St. John’s 
open-eyed demureness was impartial to all. 
There was a shower of greetings. Then Carmen 
spoke indulgently. 

“I suppose you don’t know where Howard is 
these days? I haven’t seen him for a week.” 


THE SLEEPWALKER 


127 


“I presume he’s at home,” replied Em quietly. 

“Whose home?” asked Celia caressingly. 

“Ours,” said Em. “You know we’re living 
together now.” 

Mitra let slip a poisonous glance at Celia’s 
innocent face. Tanaka’s smile did not change. 
A wounded look in Gouvain’s eyes. The others 
stared at Em with frank curiosity. Even little 
Stieg said nothing. 

“We knew you were, child,” Carmen returned 
with throaty casualness. 

“Well, good-by,” said Em valiantly. “I 
mustn’t leave my friends any longer.” 

“Bye-bye, dearie,” answered Carmen, speak¬ 
ing for all with raucous benevolence. 

During dinner (in the intervals of Stieg’s 
volleys of ex cathedra pronouncements, and the 
probings of the Hungry Soul’s psychoanalytic 
vocal tentacles, which floated to her) Em was 
steadied by noting the whispered colloquies at 
Carmen’s table. Em was defiant and strong. I 
have declared. I’m not ashamed—even of leav¬ 
ing Les. I’m not ashamed! 

“We’ll take you home, Em,” Michael proposed 
when they had finished coffee and cigarettes. 

“Fine!” Em was rehabilitating herself. 
Michael’s offer was a symbol. I can live uncon¬ 
cealed. She felt clean. She was almost gay as 
she led the way out of the small food-smelling 


128 SINBAD 

room into the cold bright darkness of the animate 
street. 

Michael and Toby left her at her door. As she 
slowly climbed to the apartment Howard ran up 
the stairs and overtook her. 

“Hello! Where have you been? I was here 
most of the afternoon.” 

“I’ve been out with friends,” Em answered 
abstractedly. 

The janitress was in the hall, a parcel in her 
hand. She did not observe Howard ascending 
behind Em. 

“Here’s a package for your husband,” the 
woman began. “Oh, here he is-” 

“He’s not my husband,” Em almost snapped. 

The janitress gasped. 

Howard’s eyes were furious as Em unlocked 
the door and preceded him into the flat. If he 
could only bring himself to use some brutal word 
to destroy her! But something withdrew him 
from the impulse. Fine sense of proportion! 
Female. This kind of martyrdom— Ennobles 
our relation to confess it to an Irish janitress! 
We’ll be evicted next. 

“My God, there’s nothing more holy than a 
sense of humor, Em!” he grated. 

Em would not answer. Damn the girl, 
anyway! 



CHAPTER V 

THE TAMERS 


“I smiled at him, and looked pleasantly, and beckoned to 
him to come still nearer. At length he came close to me, 
and then he kneeled down again, kissed the ground, and 
laid his head upon the ground, and taking me by the foot, 
set my foot upon his head: this, it seems, was in token of 
swearing to be my slave forever. I took him up and made 
much of him, and encouraged him all I could.” 

Daniel Defoe — <f Robinson Crusoe” 

1 

The shriveled and grimy park, dead and still 
under the winter sunlight. Branches of trees 
stiffened and distorted with the cold, twigs like 
upturned rootlets. The bright sky belonged to 
another land. 

Howard and Em were walking in the park. 

Em in a coarse woven red-brown cape and 
tam-o’-shanter, hair shading into her cap. Her 
eyes saw without looking. The old scene brought 
her an unworded pain. Les seemed part of the 
park. The dead tree and the pool. Together, 
so long ago— She had never gone back to Jane 
Street. When her clothes and easel were moved 
to Howard’s she had sent Les the key—with no 
letter. The park had remained. Their path, 

129 


130 


SINBAD 


hers and Les’s. Howard was walking beside her, 
hunched like a crane in his long heavy coat with 
its big collar, narrow face under golf cap. Les 
had unity of body. Les was- 

Howard’s voice startled her. 

“Has Drane settled in Chicago ?” 

“I don’t know.” Em glanced keenly at 
Howard. Did he see my thoughts? 

“Don’t you ever communicate with him?” 

“No.” What has kept me? Why? Will this 
go on— Then anger came. “Is a report 
expected on all I do or don’t do?” 

Howard frowned slightly. 

“No, but I wondered. He may turn up here 
in New York some of these days.” 

“What if he does?” She spoke with coldness. 

“Well, it wouldn’t be very- v ’ 

Em broke in almost harshly. 

“I don’t see how you are concerned, whether 
he does or doesn’t.” 

Howard’s lips tightened. 

“I beg pardon for presuming to mention him. 
I didn’t know that his name was interdicted.” 

An undefined perception checked Em in her 
unrecognized desire for enmity between the two 
men. 

“Why shouldn’t he come if he wants to, How¬ 
ard?” Her voice was reasonable, almost beseech¬ 
ing. Half-acknowledged determinations. 

“I stand aside,” Howard replied bitterly. 




THE TAMERS 


131 


Em’s restraint dissipated. 

“I should love to see him!” she cried impetu¬ 
ously, her face working. “Why shouldn’t I? 
He’s a lovely person, unselfish and-” 

“Unselfishness is trading services,” Howard 
interrupted cuttingly. 

She scarcely heard him. 

“And strong and-” Her breathing was 

agitated. 

“It isn’t possible to be strong in a relation,” 
he said carefully. “But I congratulate you on 
your ex-ideal. I had no notion of how much he 
still obsessed you.” Howard wanted to be indif¬ 
ferent to Em’s reverence for Les. Anyone who 
inspired reverence—faugh! 

Each striving to conquer the other. Em 
stopped on the path and looked fixedly at 
Howard. Is he jealous? The thought solaced 
her. I’ve hurt them both. She felt kinder 
toward them both, almost maternal. 

“Howard, why should you feel this way? Les 
always spoke so generously of you-” 

“I don’t thank him for an unsolicited conde¬ 
scension,” Howard rejoined testily. “But I 
suppose he enjoyed the grand gesture.” 

Em’s cheeks flushed. 

“Well, you might thank him!” she burst out. 
“He’s big enough. Les isn’t complacent.” 

“You should have stayed with him.” Howard’s 
voice trembled. He became obvious when 






132 SINBAD 

attacked. He was brilliant only when tearing 
down. 

Em turned on him with suppressed enmity. 

“I know I should,” she said passionately. 

Howard had begun to realize that he might 
lose Em, but he could not forbear to dare her. 

“It’s not too late to go back to him,” he 
taunted coolly. He almost wanted her to leave 
him. He could be sure of his superiority only 
when they were apart. 

Turning suddenly he left her alone on the path. 

2 

Howard had begun to avoid his friends. 

None of them except Celia had spoken to him 
of Em’s indiscretion, but he could not endure 
their smiles. It was not enough that he was not 
ashamed of Em, not ashamed of himself. He 
could bear to see no one but Celia. Celia’s eyes 
were naked against his, like a body touching his 
body. Celia had no shame. Still he kept away 
even from her, began to stay at home, locked in 
his apartment. Em was not always there. But 
several whom he ran into unavoidably had lightly 
hinted that he was growing uxorious. Howard 
feared only light things. Em is banal in her 
intensity, he told himself. Yet he would not go 
out more. His vanity was inverting: he wished 
to defy himself. 

A dreary afternoon. The gray walls were 


THE TAMERS 


133 


grayer. Em was in her bedroom. She never 
worked any more. One partly finished canvas 
had lasted for a month. Her body was growing 
gaunt, her face narrower. She came out, started 
as she saw Howard, cheek in hand, seated idly 
by the table. 

“What’s the matter, Howard?” 

He did not raise his eyes. 

“How should I know? It’s hard enough to 
decide what’s the matter with other people, let 
alone myself.” 

Em drew near and placed her hand on his 
shoulder. 

“Can’t you tell me what it is?” 

The touch of her hand made him respond. He 
wanted to strike her. Since he could not he 
relaxed to her sympathy. 

“I suppose it’s because I’m not a strong 
character.” Howard’s pride was never fixed 
on virility. 

Em’s tenderness was drawn by submission. 
She bent over him and laid her cheek to his. 

“I’m not a strong character either, Howard.” 

He feared to succumb. 

“You don’t need to be, Em.” He tried to 
blame her for her artistic success. 

“Neither do you, dear.” He started to reply 
and she placed her fingers over his' lips. “Let’s 
just be, Howard, and not talk about things.” 
Her voice was wistful. 


134 


SINBAD 


He could not bear any more of this. He 
wished blindly to destroy his recognition of his 
human dependence. 

“I haven’t made you the effigy of a class.” 

Em straightened up. 

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, 
Howard.” 

“You substitute me for everyone who hurts 
you.” 

She walked to the other side of the table and 
sat down. 

“No more than you, Howard. That’s the 
kind of people we are: that’s the way our 
emotions work. The trouble is you won’t 
admit it.” 

“We’re not the same kind of people,” he said 
impatiently. “You think you’re noble because 
you’re remorseless in things that kill others, and 
you despise me because I’m selfish in matters 
that hurt no one. All your instincts are infallible 
and all mine perverse!” 

How like my talks with Les, thought Em. 
But at least we feel each other. Poor Howard’s 
vanity. She felt sad for him. Yet the weaker 
he showed himself the more certain she, in her 
pity for him, became. 

“Let’s not tear each other,” she replied gently. 

“If we can’t have affection-” I’m talking 

like Les now. I wonder if- 


“Affection is feeding on someone else,” How- 




THE TAMERS 135 

ard interrupted bitterly. “But you’re not even 
affectionate.” 

Her face flushed. 

“I am!” she cried. “I am!” 

“You’re not. All you want is to bait me when¬ 
ever you need crisis, and then clear it up with a 
little drama.” 

Em rose angrily. 

“And all you want is-” 

“Somebody to be half human,” he broke in 
vindictively. “I’m not in Drane’s class as a 
strong man.” 


3 

Em paced her room in the darkness. 

I want to live. I must know I’m alive. How 
can I live alone? I must touch something! 

She sobbed. She moved her hands wildly. 

Keep death away from me! Life is so little! 
All I want—all I want- 

She sank to the floor. She lay weeping with¬ 
out tears. That was the end of everything—just 
this dullness. She fancied with horror that it 
made no difference to her how things went on. 

4 

Howard was trying to be gentler. Em’s 
almost ill look made him talk sociably. Since his 
letter from Algeria he had referred to her several 




136 


SINBAD 


times. To Em it seemed that he was always 
invoking Algeria. Why does she bother me? 

“I think Algeria will be back in New York 
before long,” he said suddenly one night after 
they had gone to bed. 

When Howard had first begun to live with 
Em he had written Algeria a letter which seemed 
to end the phase of his intimacy with her. But 
he was allowing it to revive. Algeria was not 
the effacing kind. Howard himself was never 
true to any relationship. He never admitted for 
himself the necessity of selection. 

“I don’t care.” Em yawned as she replied. 
She felt that Howard should be interested in her. 

“You’ll like Algeria, Em.” 

“I shan’t like her.” 

“How do you know? You’ve never seen her.” 
Howard wished he had not spoken of Algeria, 
but he would not desist. 

“I’ve heard enough.” We didn’t come to bed 
to talk about Miss Westover. Howard’s party— 
He’s worked over there ever since I came. 

“She’s a remarkable woman.” Did he wish 
to hurt Em with Algeria? He knew that in 
the beginning he had desired to hurt Algeria 
with Em. 

“She must be. Do all the rest of your friends 
lie awake nights raving about her?” 

“I believe you’re jealous of her.” Howard 
laughed as he took Em in his arms. She pushed 


THE TAMERS 


137 


him from her. She could not bear to have him 
with her while he was thinking of Algeria. Why 
did Algeria mean anything? Let him go to her! 
Em rose and put on her slippers and kimono. 
“Where are you going, Em?” said Howard 
angrily. 

“To sleep in the other room.” 

“Do!” he retorted. There was a veiled threat 
in his tone but he felt a novel guiltiness he could 
not explain. 

Em paused at the doorway. 

“I don’t want to disturb your thoughts.” 

He did not reply. When she awoke next 
morning he was gone. 


CHAPTER VI 

WEBS 


“Pleasure drives out Pain: and because Pain is felt in 
excess men pursue Pleasure in excess. 

“The attempted answer of Speusippus e that Pleasure may 
be opposed and yet not contrary to Pain . . / will not 
hold: for he cannot say that Pleasure is identical with evil 
of any kind.” 

“The Nicomachean Ethics of Aristotle” 

(Trans. D. P. Chase) 


1 

All the negativeness of Howard’s personal 
egotism was becoming positive on the artistic 
side. 

He rather enjoyed self-contempt, dismissing 
himself on the plane of human relations. His 
frank lack of moral pride relieved his vanity 
from ethical obligation. It allowed him not only 
to do what he liked, but also eased him from the 
inner necessity to make it up to himself. Never¬ 
theless he was really unhappy. This unhappi¬ 
ness, while chiefly with himself, was not merely 
a vague disappointment and dissatisfaction. He 
needed for Em to worship him more, not as an 
individual, for he had a genuine pleasure in 


WEBS 


139 


confessing his faults, but as an artist. He longed 
for it. Her own artistic achievement was un¬ 
answerable, and therefore some reversal of her 
attitude became requisite. She did not condemn 
but ignored his art. So, still thirsting for her 
recognition, he unconsciously shifted his hope 
to the more equal field of the personal emulations 
that he despised. 

Howard’s increasing absences at night both¬ 
ered Em. It was not a conventional grievance. 
Freedom was her god. Her philosophy of 
conduct did not permit her to object to any 
philandering he might see fit to practice. One 
of her hostilities toward Les had grown from 
the feeling that he forced himself to ignore all 
other relations except his relation to her. Sacri¬ 
fice oppressed her. But Howard had come grad¬ 
ually to neglect her unbearably. Since her rush 
of confession to her friends and his, she saw 
almost no one. Something in her needed contact. 
There was panic in the world. 

Darkness. It was nearly midnight. The bell 
rang. Em had sat for hours almost motionless 
in a big chair. She sprang up with unconcealed 
eagerness and opened the door. Her thin face 
hectic. It was Mitra. He entered silently. He 
looked first at her and then around the apart¬ 
ment. She was alone. He exclaimed with 
cheerless delight. 

“Elephants!” Em smiled. It was good that 


140 


SINBAD 


someone had come. “I came to walk.” Needless 
words always seemed to hurt him. 

“With me?” 

Mitra nodded. To Em after her evening alone 
it was a challenge. My trouble is that I’m 
daunted. She put on her hat and coat and they 
went down to the street. 

“Good!” His voice was secret and remote. 

They walked slowly. Em conversed uneasily 
to her mute companion. It was only when they 
were passing Algeria’s studio that she realized 
why. After a few turns in the Square they came 
back by Algeria’s studio. Howard and Celia 
were at the door. He was fitting his key in the 
lock: but Celia saw Mitra and Em. 

“It’s after one,” Em said quietly, glancing at 
her watch. She was holding herself. Mitra’s 
being with her helped her. “I think I shall go 
to bed.” 

Mitra tried to see her face. He paced silently 
at her side until they reached the apartment. 

“May I come up?” 

“No,” said Em kindly. 

His dark eyes were lustrous. 

“I love you, little white tiger.” He stood 
motionless before her. 

“Don’t, please.” She was still gentle. 

“He has—for a long time.” 

“That makes no difference.” She held out her 
hand with an affectionate gesture. Mitra’s silent 


WEBS 


141 


dramatic complacency was disconcerting to her 
Anglo-Saxon self-consciousness. She smiled. 
“Let’s be friends.” 

Almost before she spoke he was gone. 

2 

Em decided against seclusion. She went to 
lunch at Esther’s the next day. She wore one 
of her most becoming costumes, a brown hand- 
woven wool skirt and smock, hat covered with 
the same material. Her slightly hollowed cheeks 
were carefully rouged, her eyes alight and un¬ 
swerving. Howard, Celia and Gouvain were 
seated at a table that was directly before her as 
she entered. 

Gouvain sprang to his feet and pulled back the 
vacant chair. 

“Zis wass reserve for you!” he exclaimed with 
his warming smile. His seeking eyes rested 
happily on hers. 

Em returned his smile with decision. 

“Hello,” she said in a natural tone to Howard 
and Celia. 

Constraint was reduced to a minimum. The 
new manners do not yet admit breaches of good 
form in public. However, Gouvain’s glowing 
eyes perplexed Em slightly. His eyes no longer 
considered Howard. She felt surprisingly un¬ 
certain. When sex is no longer connected with 
a beloved person there is no stopping-place. 


142 


SINBAD 


Celia, Mitra and Gouvain seemed a welter of 
sex. But she was glad Howard was free. I’m 
enduring for him what Les endured for me. Em 
was almost happy to be made to feel something 
about it. 

Gouvain talked to her with an air of intimacy. 
Howard and Celia flippantly discussed art. 
Celia’s silken indolent voice came to Em. 

“A woman with a body like mine doesn’t need 
to be an artist.” 

Em was astonished at the close of the meal 
when Howard turned to Gouvain. 

“Will you take Celia home, Pierre? I’m going 
to walk along with Em.” 

Celia never showed wonder. Gouvain glanced 
docilely at Em. 

“I am enchant.” 

On the way to the apartment neither Em nor 
Howard spoke. 

3 

Howard and Em could still talk things out, 
still fight to release, so she clung to him. 

From the beginning of their relation he had 
always been faithful to the secrets of all the 
women with whom he had had affairs, including a 
schoolgirl sweetheart of his college days. Thus 
he possessed a psychic harem from which Em 
felt he was excluding her. Now they sat down 
to debate the present situation. Howard had 


WEBS 


143 


invited this by coming home with Em. He could 
not convince himself that he was ready to risk 
losing her, but also he could not desist in his 
attempt to punish her through Celia. Em’s 
calmness mystified him. She seemed stronger. 
Her delicate form seemed more definite and 
steady. She began the discussion. 

“Don’t you feel that we should be frank about 
things, Howard?” 

“By which I suppose you mean for me to be 
frank.” 

“I mean both of us,” she said patiently. 

“You’re very frank about Gouvain,” he re¬ 
sponded coldly. 

“I’m perfectly willing to tell you everything 
about him and me.” 

“And about Mitra,” he added with more heat. 

Em crimsoned. 

“I can tell you every word I’ve ever said to 
Mitra.” 

“What about the things he’s said to you?” Em 
was silent. “Hasn’t he made love to you?” 

“Yes,” she answered honestly. 

“Well, if you let men make love to you without 
my knowledge, why should I report to you every¬ 
thing I do?” Under the pretext of sharing I’m 
allowed only the aspects of sex she enjoys! 

“I didn’t let him!” exclaimed Em indignantly. 

Howard was intoxicated in the thought of her 


144 


SINBAD 


retreat before him. His green eyes shone, his 
curling lip quivered. 

“I presume Drane reported on all the time he 
spent out of your sight.” 

“I never asked-” she began in a choking 

voice. Her body swayed and she clenched her 
hands. 

“How much has he told you about this girl 
with the ‘candied’ eyes you fancied so?” Howard 
was instinctively sowing doubt. 

“I know he never—I don’t believe-” Em 

burst into tears. This suggestion inflicted far 
more pain than her jealousy of Howard aroused. 

Howard was pitiless. He wanted to hold her 
and yet not relinquish his goad. I’ll use her 
bombastic idea of duty! 

“What you and I need is a little good taste in 
our relations, Em,” he said with cynical toler¬ 
ance. “Now Algeria and I, she’s like me in 

such matters, we never-” He hesitated 

involuntarily before the sudden anger in Em’s 
eyes. 

He realized that he had made a false step. 
Em seemed most desirable when she was aroused, 
but he felt unable to end what he had begun. 
Before he could continue she burst into a storm 
of irate words. 

“Don’t talk to me! I hate you—you and your 
Algeria—and that little baby-faced whore—all 
of you—go away—leave me-” Em stopped 






WEBS 


145 


for breath. She was frightened at herself, but 
relieved by her own violence. Her lips still 
quivered but her gaze disowned him. 

Howard’s tone altered. 

“Listen, Em-” 

“Get away from me!” she cried hoarsely, her 
eyes dark with bitter abhorrence. 

“I shall,” he snarled, striding from the room 
and slamming the door after him. 

As he passed down the stairs he felt ill with 
depression. He had no regret for Em, but he 
felt lost. There seemed nothing for him to look 
forward to. Some great artist to acknowledge 
his personality! He did not admit greatness in 
Em, but at least something real—without her, 
nothing. He recalled bitterly and without 
gratitude the men and women who admired him: 
he despised them, with hatred, for the insult of 
their too easy tribute. 

Left alone. Em sank into a chair by the table 
and buried her face in her arms. Rough sobs 
grated in her throat, her shoulders heaved jerkily, 
the muscles of her neck twitched. The gathering 
darkness at last hid her shivering form. 













BOOK III: ALGERIA 


“Enter Magda, brilliantly dressed, with a large mantle, and 
a Spanish veil on her head. She embraces Marie. 

Magda. —My puss! My little one! How my little one has 
grown ! My pet—my —( kissing her passionately ). But 
what’s the matter? You’re dizzy. Come, sit down. 
No, no, please sit down. Now. Yes, you must. (Places 
Marie in an arm-chair.) Dear little hands, dear little 
hands! (Kneels before her, kissing and stroking her 
hands.) But they're rough and red, and my darling is 
pale. There are rings around her eyes.” 

Hermann Sudermann —“Die Heimat ” 
(Trans. C. E . A. Winslow) 
















CHAPTER I 

“THE EVERLASTING RETURN” 


“O'er the hill-tops all 
Lies gentle rest. 

In the tree-tops tall 
Thou scarce feelest 
One single quivering breath. 

E'en the birds are silent now: 

Wait, yes wait , for thou 
Must, too, soon rest in death." 

W. v. Goethe —“Ueber alien Gipfeln ist Ruh" 
(Trans, by the author in his fourteenth year) 

1 

New York. Dizzy ranges of buildings, 
sluggish sloughs between, whirring moan of 
human machines, unresting nights spurting fire 
in puerile designs. Les walked again in his city. 
Smoke and filth above. Unseen stars lit by 
unseen acolytes . . . moon gliding on like a 
dying swan . . . Les’s body in motion still bent 
forward, but not eagerly. He wished for Carl. 

Les resigned from the Empire State Trust 
Company. 

“Of course it’s exclusively your affair, Mr. 
Drane, but perhaps I ought to say that we feel 


150 


SINBAD 


there’s a future for you with us if you cared to 

stay. Your work in Chicago was unusually-” 

The Vice President had devoted two costly 
minutes to Les. “If a reasonable increase in 
salary now and-” 

“I’m afraid I must-” Nose like a rudder! 

Might be human if- 

“Well, you know best. Good day, Mr. Drane, 
and good luck.” Mr. Sutton turned to the 
papers before him. 

Book reviews, odd jobs and the novel drove 
Les to a single room in Patchin Place. Some 
instinct made him treasure the money he had 
saved in Chicago. Saw no one. 

He craved music. New York concerts at a 
prohibitive price, occasionally even Skriabin, 
Stravinsky, Leo Ornstein. One night he sat 
beside a young Jewess. Dark golden eyes . . . 
In the pauses she talked of Ernest Bloch. From 
experience Les expected her name to be Dorothy 
or Margaret. It was Cicely. “Oh, yes, I’ve met 
Miss Tyler—I knew that she and you-” 

Cicely lived four doors from him. Another 
concert. Concerts. Walks on Sunday. Sur¬ 
prises, in and out to tidy his things, mend, 
curtains made, cozy dinners for two, smoke, quiet 
talk. Polished black hair. Skin of sweet ivory. 
Kestful breasts. Kind hands. 

“Stay tonight-” 








“ THE EVERLASTING RETURN ” 151 


“Dear, dear boy, I’d love to be good to 

you-” Trembling . . . 

Les thought his life had more peace. 


2 

It was weeks before Les ran into Howard. 

“How are you, Drane?” 

“I’m very well.” Les gazed collectedly into 
Howard’s eluding eyes. 

“Wonderful winter weather.” 

“Charming,” said Les. He looked sunken 
down within himself, as though nothing could 
touch him. 

Howard walked thoughtfully toward his 
apartment. Once he glanced back at Les who 
moved skillfully on through the crowded street. 

Since the scene with Em about Celia and 
Algeria, Howard had spent more time at home. 
Neither he nor Em knew just how they remained 
together. Something held him. Why do I hang 
to her? Can’t get away? Howard had con¬ 
ceded—almost begged. He astonished himself. 
I wish she’d paint. Their relation persisted. 
Some day she will do something great. Em 
looked wan. He hated pathos worse than he 
hated dependence. Good Lord! I’m becoming 
marital. 

Celia never endured neglect. There was 
excellent steel under her velvet voice and she 



152 SINBAD 

made Howard writhe. One night he had found 
Mitra at her place. 

“I came over to take you to dinner,” Howard 
had said, seating himself rather nervously. 

Mitra had sat staring at the floor. 

“Thanks,” Celia had replied languidly. “Mitra 
is going to cook me some curry at his rooms.” 

Howard, rising stiffly: 

“I suppose I might as well go on.” 

Celia, with indolent impertinence: 

“Yes, you’d better run back to Emily. I shall 
probably stay all night with Mitra.” 

As the door had closed after Howard, a 
whisper from Mitra to Celia: 

“Elephants!” 

When Howard reached his apartment after 
having seen Les, Em was out. She had evidently 
been downstairs to open the mail-box: he found 
another letter from Algeria lying conspicuously 
on a table. Algeria was coming to New York! 
For some time fear had kept him from mention¬ 
ing her to Em. But with Les in New York and 
Celia with Mitra, he felt more than ever that he 
needed Algeria for a weapon. Em’s key rattled 
in the lock and he put the letter in his pocket. 

Em entered with rather jerky, fidgety move¬ 
ments. As she removed her hat and coat her 
face and figure appeared almost pitifully thin 
and frail. Howard did not look up. 


“ THE EVERLASTING RETURN ” 153 


“Hello, Howard,” she said in a low voice. He 
made no reply. “Have you been in long?” 

“No.” 

“I just ran across a friend of yours,” she 
pursued restlessly. 

“I just ran across a friend of yours ” 

“Who?” asked Em quickly, hesitating in the 
removal of her coat. 

“Mr. Drane.” Howard’s tone was almost 
mocking, but she did not notice it. He would 
not admit his own uneasiness. 

“What! Les? Is he here? Where did you 
see him?” Em’s cheeks had grown white and 
the spots of rouge on them appeared more un¬ 
natural than ever. She twisted her handkerchief 
nervously in her hands and her eyes searched 
Howard’s face eagerly. 

Howard had determined to be magnanimous 
toward Les, but the longing in Em repulsed him. 
He spoke sharply. 

“I saw him on the street.” 

“Was he well? How long has he been in New 
York?” Em’s excitement became more and 
more visible with every word. Howard’s sense 
of inexplicable injury grew. 

“He did inform me that he was in good health. 
I didn’t ask how long he has been in the city. I 
wasn’t particularly interested.” 

Tears started to Em’s eyes. She did not 
oppose pain that was related to Les. 


154 


SINBAD 


“Oh, Howard! How can you, after he has 
been so lovely about everything! Didn’t you 
ask him to come and see us?” Em barely knew 
what she was saying. “Where is he staying?” 

Howard’s lip curled. 

“I certainly did not invite him to visit us, and 
don’t know wdiere he is sojourning.” 

Em scarcely heard him. She was putting on 
her hat and coat again. Howard had no inten¬ 
tion or desire to prevent her from seeing Les, 
no liking for the conventional attitude, but it 
wounded him to be forgotten. If, at the news 
of Les’s proximity, she had turned to him he 
could easily have been noble about it. He 
thought of Celia, then of Algeria. He would 
stay that night at Algeria’s studio. Algeria 
would return soon. He unconsciously imputed 
to Em’s obliviousness all his desire for infidelity. 
Without his knowing it she deepened his self¬ 
distrust. His face was set. He wanted to 
chasten her for humiliating him. He felt re¬ 
morseless toward her. 

“Are you going to take your things?” he 
inquired caustically as she passed by him on her 
way to the door. 

“Don’t, Howard.” Em put her arms around 
him tremulously. “Please don’t.” It was sweet 
to her to be hurt for Les. She loved Howard 
for doing it. 

He made no response to her endearment, but 


“ THE EVERLASTING RETURN ” 155 


she hardly knew it. A rapt look was in her eyes 
as she left him. Howard was jealous only of 
what seemed her painless capacity for emotion. 

3 

Les and Cicely walking across the Square in 
the thin pale sunshine. Cicely’s dark cheeks 
mantled with a glow from the cold air. She 
looked happily at him. 

“Isn’t it a lovely day, Les?” Her world was 
complete. She admired him, however, almost to 
the point of discomfiture. 

A call behind them. Les looked around. 
Stuart and Genevieve! Les’s world had come 
back. I must act again . . . 

“Well, stranger!” Stuart spoke shyly, but 
gripped Les’s hand hard. He nodded awkwardly 
to Cicely. 

“Hello, Jen.” Les was disconcerted. She 
is hurt. There must be no display. Jen is 
good . . . 

Genevieve had poise. 

“How long have you been back?” she de¬ 
manded before committing herself to any demon¬ 
stration. “How do you do. Miss—Miss-” 

“Cicely Frank,” supplied Les. “She’s been 
at your house.” 

“Miss Frank.” Genevieve bowed distantly. 
“Yes, I remember you. Michael brought you.” 

“I’ve been here some time,” Les admitted. 



156 SINBAD 

holding out his hand. Genevieve placed hers in 
it, but her eyes looked into his without forgive¬ 
ness. She admired Em too much to be jealous 
of her, but she resented Cicely. 

“Have you seen Em?” she asked with cruel 
solicitude. 

Les glanced at Cicely. 

“No,” he answered. I should have stayed— 
I can’t endure . . . 

“Les, you ought to be ashamed of yourself.” 
Reproach was in Genevieve’s face. She ignored 
the others. 

Cicely looked from one to the other of the 
group. 

“Let’s discuss something else,” said Les after 
a pause. 

Genevieve straightened. 

“Let’s,” she agreed loftily. Only her eyes 
showed that she had been wounded. “I gather 
that you wouldn’t care to come and see us some¬ 
time.” 

Genevieve had a code of worldliness, and her 
vanity made her demand some sexual recognition 
from most of the men she met. But unknown to 
herself her tendency was toward a morally 
beautiful idealism. Her affection for Em and 
Les had aroused this feeling. The sight of Les 
with Cicely justified it, and revived Genevieve’s 
antagonism, and distrust of women. By ignor¬ 
ing the conventions she felt that she had defied 


“ THE EVERLASTING RETURN ” 157 


all moral justifications and could ask no quarter. 
As she did not demand fidelity from any man 
as her moral right, she had to command it by her 
physical attractions. This feeling that her vanity 
was at bay extended even to her friendships. 
She was now resentful that she, who had deferred 
her egotism to Em’s, should have to admit the 
intrusion of what she thought Les’s inferior 
preference. 

Les glanced again at Cicely, and back at 
Genevieve. 

“I’m sure to come sometime,” he smiled. 

Genevieve showed plainly that she was of¬ 
fended. 

“Well, we won’t keep you any longer. Good- 
by, Miss-” 

“Frank.” Cicely without malice felt her 
advantage. She smiled and held out her hand. 

Genevieve barely touched it. Stuart smiled 
dryly, nodded again, and they moved on. 

Les and Cicely continued their walk across 
the Square. I can’t help it— Les did not know 
he was blaming Cicely for Genevieve’s grudge. 
I can’t explain. No one can see— If Carl 
were here . . . 

“Shall we go home?” Cicely asked timidly. 

“No. I want to be alone.” Why did I say 
that? Hurting her because I’m hurt . . . 

Tears came to Cicely’s eyes. She turned and 
walked rapidly from him. Les resumed his 




158 


SINBAD 


unheeded way. I don’t want decision. I can’t 
stand struggle. Better alone than friendship 
with— I hate generosity! Just something 
kind . . . 

A familiar railing caught his eye. He looked 
up at his windows, puzzled that he had come 
home after all. 


4 

Em went to Jane Street for the first time 
since she had moved her things away. The 
once-friendly Polish janitress stared at her sus¬ 
piciously. 

“Mr. Drane went quite a while ago,” she said 
grudgingly. “He’s somewhere in Patchin 
Place, I think.” The fat janitress had always 
liked Les. 

Em left on light feet. Scanning intently the 
cards on door after door in Patchin Place, she 
rang several bells in succession. A tall surly 
blond ^irl answered one. 

“Does Mr. Drane live here?” Em was a 
picture of expectancy. 

“Second floor,” replied the girl ungraciously. 

Em flew up the stairs. Les opened the door 
slowly in answer to her repeated knocking. For 
an instant she saw the small crowded room, the 
litter of papers on a table, Les’s shoes, a girl’s 
dress. Then the reality of her surroundings 
passed. 


“ THE EVERLASTING RETURN ” 159 


“Oh, Les!” she cried. “Oh, Les!” She seized 
him hungrily in her arms and wept in an abandon 
of joy. 

He drew her into the room after a moment 
and led her to a chair. She was so happy in 
his presence that she had not noticed his self- 
conscious response. She gazed at him avidly. 
Les was only slightly taller than Em, and this 
surprised her after Howard’s length. His active 
body, his firm skin, hair dark-sprinkled with gray 
and slightly wavy at the ends, growing thin on 
the crown of his head, his wide clean-shaven chin, 
deep lines from the wing of the nose on each side 
to a point between the cheek and chin—Les 
looked older. He’s beautiful. It’s because he 
has unity of personality, she thought. Dear, 
dear Les— She could not speak for emotion. 

He looked at her anxiously. 

“You’ve been ill, Em.” His voice was medi¬ 
cine to her bruised vanity. “You’re thin.” 

“Oh, Les, how could you be in New York and 
not try to see me?” Her tone was too loving for 
rebuke. She was with him. 

“I didn’t know whether-” What is the 

use? Can’t pain end? She doesn’t know . . . 

“Nothing can ever make me not want to see 
you, Les.” She rose and went to him, kissed 
him lingeringly. “I shall always love you— 
always-” Her voice broke. She walked to 




160 


SINBAD 


and fro for a moment and then reseated herself. 
“You look tired, Les.” 

“I’m older than you,” he smiled. “Older in 
body and spirit. ... I must tell you some¬ 
thing ” He hesitated painfully. “I— 

I’m—there’s somebody-” 

The little pang hardly hurt Em. 

“I know,” she said, gazing at him fondly. 
“That girl with the candid eyes. I’ve seen her 
since Howard’s party. She’s sweet.” Em loved 
to have him talking intimately to her. Nothing 
mattered besides his nearness. 

Les showed surprise. His embarrassment 
was smoothed. 

“No. It’s another girl—a Jewess.” 

Em laughed affectionately. 

“Jews are just like other people, only more 
so,” she admitted tolerantly. 

“She’s been lovely and sympathetic.” Les 
could talk easily now. 

“You dear! I think you’re cute with your 
love affairs!” She felt gay. They were both 
really talking about their own comfort in being 
together again. 

“It’s nice of you-” His voice was un¬ 

steady. 

“Why, Les, I shall love her. I love every¬ 
one who is—is-” She could not go on. Her 

heart was full. She felt close to him—that they 






“ THE EVERLASTING RETURN ” 161 


understood each other better through frankness 
than ever before. Something in her sang. 

There was a timid noise at the door. 

“There she is now, probably.” Les spoke in 
a subdued tone. 

Constraint had descended upon them. Cicely, 
plump pretty body, well-made clothes, and air 
of modesty, opened the door hesitatingly and 
stopped blankly as she saw Em. Cicely was 
confused—contrite for something she did not 
understand. Her eyes were deprecating. She 
glanced apprehensively at Les. 

“Come in, Cicely,” he said with kind restraint. 
How easily things are begun— No one can 
know. . . . 

Cicely entered and closed the door. Em 
rebounded to need for strength. She rose and 
held out her hand. 

“Why, I know you! How do you do?” 

“Yes,” said Cicely shyly, “I met you at Miss 
Strang’s.” Then her fear swept away. She 
could not control her emotion, though she felt 
that Em might condemn it. She put her arms 
about Em and kissed her. She was grateful that 
Em had not taken Les from her. I must be 
what Les wishes, thought Em, returning the kiss 
painfully. 

Cicely removed her hat and wrap, a little stab 
in Em’s heart. 

“Shall I make tea?” 


162 


SINBAD 


“Should you like some?” Les asked Em. 

“Oh, no, thank you.” She could not drink tea 
made by Cicely in his room. I must be bigger 
than this. Marriage. Owning people. Hideous. 
I won’t. “How did you like Chicago, Les?” 

“Not so well as New York.” Suffering with¬ 
out death. Did I think I could bear? Blind 
in the night. . . . God- 

Cicely was touched by the gentleness of them 
both. She felt unworthy to love Les. She knew 
she could worship Em and so prove to herself 
that there was no need of self-reproach. At 
parting Em kissed them both. Her body was 
weak, her heart beating far off. I must be 
strong. 

“Come and see us often, won’t you, please?” 
Cicely begged, won by Em’s loveliness. 

Les was silent. 


5 

While Les was telling her of Cicely, Em had 
felt no jealousy. She had even felt her love 
for Les extending to this girl who had comforted 
him. Cicely had begun to seem part of herself. 
But to her own surprise, when she saw Cicely 
in the room with Les, Em realized that she had 
been crudely and bodily jealous. She could not 
explain her feelings that shamed and pained her. 
She was going home! Talking to herself made 
it no easier. 



“ THE EVERLASTING RETURN ” 163. 


“Em!” 

‘‘What is it, Les?” She halted and looked 
around. Only people passing like a battalion. 
She could have sworn it was Les’s voice. 

Em! She knew now. 

What is it, Les ? 

I want you, Em. 

Oh, Les, I’m yours. 

Em! 

What is it, dear Les? 

I need you, Em. 

Oh, Les, I- 

Em! His face was before her. Suddenly it 
changed to Cicely’s. 

Les! Don’t— don't - 

Em! 

“Les—” She had spoken aloud again. She 
stopped. A woman bumped into her. Faces 
floated by. What is the matter with me? Is 
my mind— Am I crazy? Perhaps my heart 
was talking. Oh, Les—Les- 

She walked rapidly, almost ran along the 
street, but the exertion did not numb her suf¬ 
fering. She tried to be detached. Les could 
not live alone and homeless. But the fact that 
he was physically with Cicely swept it all away. 
She felt helplessly that she hated Cicely. No! 
I pity her. She’s not to blame for loving Les. 
She can’t understand how fine he is. Em re¬ 
belled against Les seeking appreciation from 





164 


SINBAD 


Cicely. I gave him more than that, she thought. 
I know I did. Em’s vanity was most cruelly 
wounded because Cicely was intellectually so 
commonplace. It must have been on account 
of Cicely’s more exuberant physique that Les 
wanted her. The defect in me is physical. He 
didn’t want my body. I’m worn out. This hurt 
her pride unbearably. She hated her self-pity* 
that she had to recognize. 

She was glad, when she reached the apart¬ 
ment, that Howard was not there. 

6 

When Em saw Howard at the apartment the 
next day he was astonished by her demonstra¬ 
tiveness toward him. There was something 
about it he could not understand. He had 
thought it was all over. His egotism was 
pleased. 

But she demanded an exaggerated physical 
response from him. He looked at her with 
wonder. His desire was weak with hatreds. I 
can’t. There have been too many things. 

“Do you want me, Howard? Am I nice?” 
Em’s despairing coquetry was ghastly even to 
herself. She ignored the shame to her dignity. 
She debased herself in her own eyes to excite 
him. It must be that I am not unpleasing, she 
was thinking. 

The vision of Les and Cicely in passionate 


“ THE EVERLASTING RETURN ” 165 


attitudes suddenly swam before her. She sprang 

up and fled into another room. The memory of 

Gouvain’s tender eyes rebuked her. I’m not 

•» 

bad, I’m not! 

“Where are you going, Em?” Howard was 
aroused. He rose and went to the door after 
her. She had locked it in his face. He could 
hear her sobbing within. 

Cicely in innocence had subtly precipitated 
something new into Em’s attitude toward How¬ 
ard. But he had not the lust to convince her 
of herself. She longed for Mitra’s eager licen¬ 
tiousness. I must be desired. Celia! I am no 
longer a woman. 

Em had the jealousy of loneliness. Neither 
Les nor Howard wants me. If I could die- 



CHAPTER II 

FOOTLIGHTS! 


“Here is our Drama played, our Farce begun . . • 

Here our souls speak their mirth and grief and rage ——* 
Satires in silk, light wit, and passion’s heat, 

Unspoken pain, hid sorrows, amours fleet 
And all the vanities with which we play 
Our pose of yester and our real to-day.” 

Hugo von Hofmannsthal —Prologue to Schnitsler’s 

“Anatol” (Trans, T, Blackmore) 

1 

The sword of the sun! It was a bright, 
piercing day. 

Howard was pleasantly excited over the pros¬ 
pect of Algeria’s arrival. His green eyes were 
softer, almost brown, when he was interested 
or occupied. Em was gentle before his evident 
emotion, even though it was for another. It 
exists, anyway. She felt that until she saw Les 
again life was only watching others live. 

The steamer was not to dock until ten o’clock, 

hut he rose early and shaved and dressed with 

great care. Thank God, the day was beautiful! 

Em was kind and maternal toward his eager 

166 



FOOTLIGHTS! 167 

anticipation. Her jealous agony had passed. 
Cicely- Les is here again! 

“Shouldn’t you like to go, Em?” Howard had 
asked half-heartedly. 

“I don’t think so,” she had replied with a smile. 

Although it was only eight o’clock, Howard 
hurried through his breakfast. At nine he went 
out. Em spent the day at home, half-expecting 
his return and musing over his enthusiasm for 
Algeria. Now that Les was in New York, 
what Howard felt and did seemed so much less 
important. She had a vague sense of waiting. 

2 

It was nearly four o’clock and Howard had 
not come. 

The bell rang. Em opened the door. Gene¬ 
vieve stood in the hall. Her clear eyes were a 
little hard. Em seized her in a fierce hug. 

“Why, Jen, how sweet of you!” 

“Are you alone?” asked Genevieve sternly, 
responding stiffly and almost indignantly to the 
embrace. 

“Yes,” said Em joyfully. “Come in, dar¬ 
ling.” Genevieve allowed herself to be led into 
the room. “I’m so glad to see you!” declared 
Em boisterously, pushing Genevieve into a chair 
and kissing her again. 

Genevieve remained severe. 

“You’ve not shown yourself very anxious-” 




168 


SINBAD 


Em knelt by her friend. 

“Jen—please, Jen; there are—things-” 

“There are.” Genevieve softened and she 
took Em’s hand in hers. “That’s why I’m here. 
I can’t understand you, Em. If I come here, 
you know that-” 

“I know, Jen.” Em nestled against her. She 
did not want to hear more. 

“How are you and Stuart, Jen?” 

“Oh, life is about as cheerful as a crutch just 
now. Stuart continues to get flattering letters 
from editors, but no checks—all jobs melt at one 
glance of my beautiful eyes. But I didn’t come 
to say that. Les came down to our place last 
night, and-” 

“I’ve seen him,” said Em excitedly. 

There was a sound at the door. Both girls 
started nervously. 

“I must go,” said Genevieve decisively, her 
expression becoming instantly hard and uneasy. 

“Please don’t, Jen, please -” Genevieve 

seemed part of Les. 

“All right.” Genevieve lifted her head rather 
dramatically and bit her lips. 

Em rose and seated herself in a casual atti¬ 
tude on a chair opposite Genevieve. Howard 
entered. His step was swinging and he removed 
his hat and overcoat with energetic movements. 

“Good afternoon,” he said vigorously. Gene¬ 
vieve’s remoteness piqued and irritated him. 







FOOTLIGHTS! 


169 


Who was she! Damned commercial artist—pot 
boilers—lady’s magazine- 

Genevieve bowed with cold distinction. 

“Good afternoon,” she replied in her most 
perfect accent. 

Howard tried to be oblivious to them both. 

“Did Miss Westover come?” asked Em cas¬ 
ually. A repressed happiness clung about her. 

“Yes, a mob of people to meet her. They’ve 
carried her off to half a dozen places, but she’s 
coming here to tea.” He began to bustle about 
collecting trays, cups and saucers and other tea 
things. 

“I really must go.” Genevieve rose elegantly. 

“Don’t go, Jen.” Em’s eyes were pleading. 
She wanted an opportunity to talk alone with 
Genevieve, away from Stuart and Michael and 
the others. 

“Won’t you stay and have some of my tea?” 
offered Howard, staring at Genevieve with in¬ 
sulting yet insidiously complimentary attention. 
Genevieve was looking her best. 

“I really mustn’t.” She half rose. 

“I’ll walk along with you then,” Em an¬ 
nounced determinedly, rising also. 

“I’d hoped you’d both stay and meet Algeria.” 
Howard’s tone was friendly, but deliberately 
perfunctory. 

Em pressed Genevieve’s arm persuasively. 



170 


SINBAD 


“It’s really very good of you-” Gene¬ 

vieve began with a sarcastic intonation. 

Em clapped her hands. 

“Yes, Jen, please. Oh, that’s fine!” Em 
glanced gratefully at Howard. 

Genevieve, feeling helpless and excited by her 
own capitulation, sank gracefully in her chair. 

3 

Tea was ready. Howard paced the floor, 
glancing from time to time at his watch and 
talking with unusual geniality. The sunlight 
was already fading. Em’s curiosity at his impa¬ 
tience was not resentful. He’s like a child 
before a doll party, she thought. The tea grew 
cold. Howard made some fresh. This, too, was 
growing cold. He heated water for another 
brew, leaving the kettle on the stove in the 
kitchenette. Em’s cheeks glowed. I wonder 

if Les- At last the bell rang. Howard 

rushed to the door. 

“A dramatic late arrival,” whispered Gene¬ 
vieve to Em. Algeria swam into the room, fol¬ 
lowed by Gouvain and three humble satellites 
unknown either to Em or Genevieve. Pausing, 
erect, to get the effect on her audience, Algeria 
toddled forward, a hand on each breast, her head 
back. She ambled into the group like a giant 
Geisha girl. “ ‘Enter Madame!’ ” Genevieve 
murmured cattily. 




FOOTLIGHTS! 


171 


Everything about Algeria seemed to float. 
Her entire costume appeared to be made of 
scarves. A pink chiffon scarf was about her head, 
the loose ends wafting in long streamers as she 
turned. When her dull lilac-colored cloak was 
removed by obsequious hands, another envelop¬ 
ing scarf of pink chiffon was seen to cover her 
shoulders. This clung about her and, following 
the gestures of her arms in emphasis to her con¬ 
versation, long free banners of it waved through 
the air. There were also lesser mauve stringers 
—festooned to her somehow and somewhere— 
there was no doubt as to the effect. 

She halted and sent a dazzling smile around 
the room. 

“Here is the Troll Maiden!” she trilled, 
roguishly rising to her tiptoes and throwing 
kisses in every direction. “I’d just love to hug 
all you peeties!” 

Algeria had an interesting Flemish face but 
she tried, by cultivating a piquant expression and 
by making her eyes twinkle, to look Gallic. She 
was thinking now of the effect on Howard of 
her conquering entrance. A glance assured her 
that he still seemed impressed. She had been 
secretly perturbed over the reports of Em’s 
influence. Algeria never relinquished a con¬ 
quest without a struggle. She was really clever 
and relentless. Every thought and gesture 
was conscious. Followers might rebel, but they 


172 


SINBAD 


remained. She was relieved at the sight of 
Em’s sensitive face and straightforward man¬ 
ner. That Strang woman is the dangerous one, 
she thought. 

“This is Miss Tyler,” said Howard. 

“Is this the wonderful Emily? My dear, 
you’re succulent!” Hesitating an instant with 
a demure grimace, Algeria trotted forward, 
seized Em, who had approached to shake hands, 
and kissed her rapturously. Algeria usually 
gushed the most over people she resented or 
feared. She thought quickly. The situation 
was somewhat special. 

“Amd Miss Strang,” continued Howard. 

Genevieve stood her ground warily. 

“Miss Westover,” she responded in the apo¬ 
theosis of her most patrician bearing. 

But Algeria’s widely curved mouth kept 
smiling, a perfect painted smile of sophisticated 
ingenuousness. Her sharply penciled eyes ex¬ 
pressed what seemed frank enjoyment of her 
own daring. She had already recognized some¬ 
one worthy of her best resources. 

“Ah, yes, where have I seen Miss Strang?” 

“I don’t think you’ve seen me,” said Gene¬ 
vieve delicately, “although I’ve seen you rather 
often.” 

Algeria laughed merrily. She was never dis¬ 
concerted. When she began something seriously 
and dramatically and failed to produce her effect, 


FOOTLIGHTS! 


173 


she always deftly changed the attempt to a jest. 

“Now I’m sure were old friends/’ she declared 
with silvery hilarity. 

The admiring satellites, one equine girl and 
two anemic young men, were perfunctorily intro¬ 
duced. 

“You sit there, Algeria,” suggested Howard. 

One of the male satellites, who had thought¬ 
lessly advanced toward the indicated chair in the 
center of the room, stepped back hastily. Algeria 
arranged herself in it with an effective pose. Her 
dark sleek head, hair cut in the fashion of an 
Elizabethan page-boy, was in sharp relief against 
her draperies. Her plump arms were beautifully 
white, her too-small hands exquisitely kept. She 
had the unreal animation of a stolid-bodied but 
wickedly intelligent doll. 

“You may sit here by me, Pierre,” she com¬ 
manded. Gouvain obeyed sheepishly. “I’m so 
glad to get back to Sandwich Village,” she cooed, 
glancing at the tea-tray and then expectantly at 
her audience. Howard smiled and the three 
satellites giggled. “Let’s have some magic , dear- 
estie.” Algeria smiled irresistibly. Her gaze 
was astonishingly direct, and yet somehow be¬ 
hind its naivete she remained invitingly hidden. 

Howard rose and ran into the kitchenette, 
returning with a bottle and some glasses. Em 
marveled at his submission. 

“What kind of a voyage did you have?” in- 


174 


SINBAD 


quired the girl satellite reverently, as Howard 
served the tea and wine. 

“Rather oceany ” smiled Algeria, dimpling. 
Her throat was very white and thick. “I kept 
away from the dining-room, stayed in my suite, 
don’t you know. The passengers were really 
quite terrible. They ate so eat fully. I just 
couldn't bear it!” Again she pealed silvery 
laughter in which the satellites dutifully joined. 

“And Paris?” The girl again, ecstatically. 

Algeria shrugged her heavy, incongruously 
voluptuous shoulders Frenchwise. 

“It weaved around too much! You know 
Paris is so— winey. I’m afraid I was a badix.” 

“Recite one of your poems, darling, please 
do,” continued the horse-faced girl humbly. 

“Yes!” murmured the other satellites eagerly, 
“please do.” 

Algeria smiled graciously, with a little gri¬ 
mace of elaborate gratification. She seemed to 
understand her own absurdity. Her air was of 
privileged outrageousness, innocently sophis¬ 
ticated. 

“All right, peeties, s-h-a-1-1 we?” Her ascend¬ 
ing chromatic intonation of the word “shall” was 
indescribable. “Which one do you want?” 

“Haf you one zat iss new?” Gouvain inquired 
apprehensively. 

“Millions!” beamed Algeria, making a mental 
note against him. “Let me see. Oh! Here’s a 


FOOTLIGHTS! 


175 


little magic I wrote one night in Venice . We 
just ran down there for a few days, to drink a 
little beauty, you know.” With her tiny smooth 
claw-like perfectly manicured hands she pushed 
back her bobbed hair, dyed with a little gray 
still showing at the roots. Throwing back her 
head on her short white neck, she produced from 
some mysterious part of her a dilapidated comb 
—a comb that should never be seen anywhere— 
and violently combed out her mane. Howard 
was embarrassed by this operation, but he justi¬ 
fied it with the gallant deliberateness of all her 
sexual gestures, however trivial. 

The satellites arranged themselves in attitudes 
of breathless attention as she began to half recite, 
half sing, her poem, her eyes fixed on space, her 
heavy body swaying a little to the rhythm. 

“Our Spanish Ccesar’s flotilla , 

The Pope's, and John's of Austria, 

We sailed the tideless sea to win 
It from the curse of Keyr-ed-din. 

“The old Venetian Admiral 
Was fierce commander of us all; 

Andrea Dorms masterie 

Was hard o'er all the tideless sea ** 

“Unusual power of epithet!” ejaculated the 
lesser male satellite as Algeria paused raptly. 
She drew a brave breath and chanted on. Her 


176 


SINBAD 


voice was caressing, beautifully but rather mean- 
inglessly modulated. 

“The fleet sailed out for Barbary: 

My lady fair she sailed with me. 

For love of me, it came to pass. 

Aboard my royal galleasse. 

“Then fell the storm that reft us from 
Our mates, and when the morn was 
come 

Nor nef nor galley could we see: 

’Twixt shy and wave alone sailed we 

“Eerie!” shivered the other male satellite. 

“We followed south to join anon 
Our noble sister ships agone. 

Until a day three sails were seen 
Ahanging aft us late at e’en . 

“ When near we saw with hatred cold 
The cursed crescent flying bold. 

With Allah’s name a hundred fold 
Writ over it in words of gold.” 

Algeria paused again for her audience to 
recover. 

“Marvelous!” sighed the girl. ‘‘It fright¬ 
ens me.” 

“The chase turned to a hell the ship: 

I walked the middle plank with whip; 


FOOTLIGHTS! 


177 


The naked Paynim rowers moaned 
And strained her forward till she 
groaned 

“Terribly vivid picture,” observed the larger 
male satellite. 

“And then 1 swore a fearful oath: 

‘God's splendour/ vowed 1 by my troth, 
f An we gain free I will glad part 
With what is dearest to my heart! 9 

“And in the thwarts there knelt in 
prayer 

My tender bride with golden hair: 

‘Saint John and Holy Sepulchre!' 

She prayed with whited lips in fear/ 9 

“It wrings my heart!” said the equine girl 
pitifully, as Algeria looked in her direction. 

“I knew you’d love that,” gurgled Algeria 
sweetly, intoning on with even higher unction. 

Great heavens, will it ever end? groaned Gene¬ 
vieve silently. 

“And lo! in answer to her plea 
We saw the land a league away, 

And as we neared the island's shore 
From bastions rang the cannon's roar . 

“A banner waved and for its boss 
The Hospitallers' eight armed cross: 


178 


SINBAD 


The Corsairs' brood then drew away 
While dead within their galleys lay . 

“I turned from friends my love to see. 

She turned from God and reached to 
me; 

And then my heart it burgeoned out, 

I caught her to me with a shout ” 

“Oh!” breathed the girl, her hand on her 
breast. 

“But I was dumb ere thanks I said. 

The form I gathered up was dead; 

Ashore I bore her tenderly: 

She sleeps beside the tideless sea 

“Wonderful! Exquisite! Impossible beauty!” 
vowed the satellites in impassioned chorus. 

Algeria’s eyes regally swept the excited group. 
Her pupils were exaggerated, her vermilion lips 
pouted. She was crudely voluptuous. Howard 
sometimes suffered acutely in witnessing Al¬ 
geria’s lack of subtlety. Some months of ab¬ 
sence, and his determination to conserve the 
value of Algeria’s admiration for his work had 
dimmed his recollection of her most blatant 
phase. He had not remembered that it was as 
bad as this. But his discomfort was interrupted 
when Algeria, emerging for a flash from the 
prepossession of her artificial personality, gave 


FOOTLIGHTS! 


179 


him a confidential glance of amusement in which 
she maliciously deprecated her audience. Aren’t 
they absurd to believe in me, she seemed to say. 
Or so, in relief to his vanity, he interpreted it. 

“Well, peeties, they are rather nice! We’re 
doing it, aren’t we?” For an instant, as if draw¬ 
ing aside the curtain before a mystery, she 
flashed the others a piquant smile of seemingly 
frank and innocent pleasure in herself. 

“Of all things! in this day and age!” Gene¬ 
vieve spoke almost inaudibly to Em. 

“It has a certain go to it, don’t you think?” 
said Howard, turning to Genevieve. During 
the recital he had been studying Genevieve’s har¬ 
monious make-up with critical approval. 

“Good restoration jingle,” she replied with 
elaborate carelessness. 

Howard’s glance had not escaped Algeria. 

“Won’t you recite something, Miss Strang?” 

“I don’t write,” returned Genevieve in her 
poised manner. 

“What do you do? You look so clever I’m 
sure it must be something delightful.” 

“Nothing,” said Genevieve calmly. She was 
thinking quickly, too. This woman is positively 
sinister, she decided. 

“Just live?” smiled Algeria. 

“That depends on where I am,” rejoined 
Genevieve a little crudely. 

Algeria never let the moment turn cold. 


180 


SINBAD 


Ostentatiously forgetting to reply to Gene¬ 
vieve’s remark, she rose with a bird-sweep of 
arms and draperies. 

“Come, dearesties! So dreadful to live in 
New York again! We shall be oh, so tired when 
we come back from our parties tonight. But 
we’re not losing any of our petals, are we?” She 
lifted her brows in an arch caressing grimace. 
The satellites flocked to her like chicks. Gou- 
vain smiled sadly at Em. “Bring me my cloak, 
Pierre darling,” Algeria ordered quickly, inter¬ 
cepting Gouvain’s look. She had the immediate 
impulse to separate him from the rest of the 
group. (Behold, my fellow-countrymen—and 
women—Pierre! Don’t you see why I want to 
save Howard?) “And Howard dear, you must 
take me to Celia’s, people will be waiting ” Im¬ 
partial proprietary pats and squeezes. A dra¬ 
matic pause at the door before exit. “Good- by, 
sweetestkins!” She swooped down upon Em 
and kissed her destructively. “You must come 
to see me every day.” A finger uplifted. “Now 
don’t forget!” Algeria turned at last to Gene¬ 
vieve. “Miss Strang!” 

Genevieve bowed. 

Algeria, banners streaming, smiling trium¬ 
phantly, followed by her entire cortege, dissolved 
spectacularly through the doorway. 

Em and Genevieve were alone. 


FOOTLIGHTS! 


181 


4 

% 

Genevieve drew a long breath. 

Em was thinking. Puzzled. Deeply resent¬ 
ful because Howard had preached Algeria all 
this time. What do I mean if this is his ideal? 
It’s too absurd! I can’t realize it. He never 
did mean anything to me. He couldn’t. That 
unbelievable woman! The thought of Les came 
back and her face cleared. 

“Well?” said Genevieve, raising her eyebrows. 

“Isn’t it funny?” Em smiled a little. 

“If you’d take those Loie Fuller draperies 
away she’d look like a washerwoman.” Gene¬ 
vieve’s spoken comments were usually social. 

Em laughed. 

“You’re chronically disillusioned, Jen.” 

“Yea, verily, I am a bitter female.” 

Em’s eyes grew soft again. 

“Tell me about Les.” 

“He’s wasting himself on that girl,” declared 
Genevieve shortly. I must get Em out of this 
somehow. Genevieve was frankly Howard’s 
enemy—and now Algeria! 

“I’m so sorry for Cicely,” replied Em ear¬ 
nestly. 

“I’m sorry for him!” snapped Genevieve. 
“You’re treating him rottenly, Em.” 

“How, Jen? What can I do?” Em wanted 


182 SINBAD 

Genevieve to make her do what she herself 
wished. 

“Do! You can act like a human being toward 
him. Just because you’ve broken off your affair 
there’s no reason why you should both behave 
like early Victorians.” Genevieve’s affectionate 
anxiety seemed to vent itself in reproof. I must 
get Em away from these awful people! Some¬ 
thing terrible will happen if I don’t. She tried 
to think only of Em. She did not acknowledge 
that Les came into her plan. 

“I—I’d—love to—to be-” Em had not 

gone to Patchin Place because Les had not 
sought her. No. Because Cicely was there! 
But she felt that something would happen to let 
her see Les again. Les was hers. Of course 
their love relation was over- 

“I’m going to have you two down to dinner,” 
announced Genevieve firmly. 

“Oh, Jen , you darling!” Em rushed happily 
at her friend. “You sweet thing!” Tears were 
in Em’s eyes. She forgot that Howard had 
gone away in Algeria’s train. 

“Well, I must be going.” Genevieve’s Anglo- 
Saxon imperturbability was strained. Arms 
about each other the two walked to the door. 
“I’ll let you know the time,” said Genevieve in 
a matter-of-fact tone. 

“O-o-o-h! you dear ! 33 Em kissed her again. 

After Genevieve had gone Em in the dusk 




FOOTLIGHTS! 183 

danced a pirouette around the cold, gray living- 
room. 


5 

Algeria was here! Algeria had been the 
nurse of Howard’s vanity. He had always been 
pathetically grateful for praise, but had received 
little as an etcher and none as an individual. He 
had long known, deep within himself, what Al¬ 
geria was; but could not acknowledge it because 
she insisted that he was a great artist. Then, 
other people admired her—fools, of course, 
but- 

Now that she was back, he found that his life 
with Em had cruelly rendered him more inca¬ 
pable than ever of accepting the old make-be¬ 
lieve. But Em held no promise of future obei¬ 
sance to his artistic achievement. Therefore he 
could not destroy Algeria—the symbol of his 
past. He also could not help studying Algeria 
with a new detachment. 

Arriving late at Celia’s place Algeria, with 
Howard, Gouvain, and the three satellites in tow, 
paused dramatically as usual and, all streamers 
flying, sailed overpoweringly into the crowded 
room. 

“Oh, dear!” she exclaimed with an appealing, 
frightened air and a demure arching of her rather 
lovely brows. “Why, this is a great big party, 
isn’t it?” 



184 


SINBAD 


Howard’s unaccountable irritation and shame 
returned. He had always accepted her kitten¬ 
ishness before. Transparent but pleasant— 

makes living easier- Now he thought: the 

woman has real taste, why the devil does she- 

He would not think! 

During the party Algeria had a series of little 
confidential chats with each of her principal ad¬ 
mirers. When she sank on the soft couch and 
snuggled down beside Carmen, Howard was near 
and could hear the conversation. 

“Isn’t it dear of little Celia to do all this for 
me? See her over there! Isn’t it just too sweet? 
It’s my own little soul, you know!” 

“Cel’a’s shome kid,” agreed Carmen tipsily. 
She had drunk far too much in honor of Algeria’s 
restoration to the group, but she honestly adored 
Celia. 

Celia, curled up in an arm-chair, was hardly 
less inebriated and her short skirt was strikingly 
disarranged. 

“Do you see its cute little head?” continued 
Algeria in a cuddling voice, “and,” with a low, 
hushed tone, “its adorable knee? Do tell me 
that you see its cute little knee? We can’t call 
attention to it, you know. It might cause a mo¬ 
ment of embarrassment , and then it would be 
covered up. Isn’t it just too cute?” 

Carmen nodded sapiently, a vacuous drunken 




FOOTLIGHTS! 185 

smile on her good-natured face. Howard 
writhed. 

“Do recite one of your poems, darling,” 
begged the girl satellite. 

Algeria recited. In the midst of the long, 
rhymed ballad, celebrating the loves of “The 
Brown Singer and the Gold Singer,” Howard 
slipped from the room. 

He was confused. He could not disown the 
part Algeria had played in his life! How had 
he changed? Earlier in the evening his vanity 
had been tortured almost unendurably by the 
three satellites who, seizing a cue from Algeria, 
had raved stupidly over two or three of his poorer 
things which Celia had. Being ignored hurt 
him, but adulation from people he despised de¬ 
graded him. He blamed Algeria for the crude¬ 
ness of it. Algeria’s mistake lay in the compla¬ 
cency of her contempt for those unlike herself. 
Howard enjoyed her refusal to take life seri¬ 
ously, but his very appreciation of her desire to 
escape the banality of responsibility made it in¬ 
tolerable for him to accept any implied con¬ 
descension toward himself. He would laugh 
with her, but in one thing he would not be laughed 
at- 

Behind Em’s new attitude of sisterly tolera¬ 
tion he felt Les and Genevieve. Em’s jealousy 
of Algeria would have been balm to him. But 
Em took delight in tormenting him—she pun- 



186 


SINBAD 


ished him for Les’s sake, he told himself. Her 
superiority to Algeria helped to make him inex¬ 
orable. 

As he hurried down the steps to the street he 
ran into an acquaintance, a third-rate pianist— 
one of Algeria’s numerous outer circle. Algeria 
herself composed music! 

“Hello, Story,” said the smirking musician. 
“Heard Algeria Westover’s back and holding 
forth here tonight.” 

“Well,” replied Howard coldly. 

“I came around to be amused,” smiled the 
other. “The old girl’s a scream, isn’t she?” 

“You’re a damned fool,” spat Howard, leav¬ 
ing his interlocutor breathless. 

What’s the matter with pie, Howard asked 
himself as he rushed down the street. Thinking 
himself detached from the illusions and depend¬ 
encies of others he could not understand his 
unhappiness. I’m not working hard enough, he 
decided. He imagined he could do without the 
false sentimentality which disordered Em. Al¬ 
geria at least was a decadent like himself. She 
belonged, with all her elaborate absurdities, to 
the select disillusioned. Bodily functions were 
as repulsive to her as they were to him. 

Her poetry showed little or nothing of her¬ 
self, beyond the desire to escape factual life which 
made it romantic. Algeria called herself pagan. 


FOOTLIGHTS! 187 

but her mind was full of a mediaeval terror of the 
flesh. 

She had never achieved public expression as 
a painter, but she drew cleverly—caricatures of 
men and women in romantic sexual postures in 
which there was a leer of bestiality. There was 
real sincerity in these pictures. Her revolt from 
the actual was so sharp as to envelop everything 
physical in a romantic horror, and she herself was 
fascinated by this hideousness. All the sexual 
details of physiognomy were distorted to subjec¬ 
tive representation. 

Howard and Algeria shared this protest 
against themselves, a romanticism of pollution. 
This quality of outrage, of making all uncloth¬ 
ing violent, and thereby lewd, terrified Howard 
as it applied to himself. He imagined himself 
stripped to Algeria’s imagination, and he was 
grotesque, like a fat clergyman in a bathtub. 
He had to preserve his alliance in cruelty. 


CHAPTER III 

CAKE 


“Roussillon dismounted and opening the dead man*s 
hreast with a knife, with his own hands tore out his heart 
. . . and calling the cook, said to him, ‘Take this wild 
boards heart and look thou make a dainty dish thereof, the 
best and most delectable to eat that thou knowest, and when 
I am at table, send it to me in a silver porringer/ The 
lady, who was nowise squeamish, tasted thereof and finding 
it good, ate it all; which when the knight saw, he said to 
her, ‘Wife, how deem you of this dish?* ‘In good sooth, 
my lord,* answered she, ‘it liketh me exceedingly/ Where¬ 
upon, ‘So God be mine aid,* quoth Roussillon; ‘I do believe 
it you, nor do I marvel if that please you, dead, which, 
alive, pleased you more than aught else/ The lady, hear¬ 
ing this, hesitated awhile, then said, ‘How? What have you 
made me eat?* ‘This that you have eaten/ answered the 
knight, ‘was in very truth the heart of Sir Guillaume de 
Guardestaing whom you so loved.* ** 

“The Decameron of Boccaccio** (Trans. Anonymous) 

1 

Algeria could not bear to fail. More quietly 
and conventionally dressed, her manner subdued, 
she called on Em the next day. She talked 
skillfully of serious things. She would not ac¬ 
cept dislike. Em was on the verge of capitulat¬ 
ing to Algeria’s undoubted personality. She 

188 


CAKE 


189 


could respect Algeria’s neat malice, and Alge¬ 
ria’s insidious device of taking an auditor into 
her confidence about her victims almost dis¬ 
armed Em. Perhaps I’ve misjudged her— 
But Algeria could not resist the temptation to 
quote a popular French painter’s mot anent 
Em’s work. It seemed safe. Em impressed Al¬ 
geria as being rather helpless. 

“Une explosion erotique/ J Algeria laughed 
deprecatingly as she repeated the phrase. “Of 
course I thought he was horrid, my dear.” 

Em unadmittedly made every criticism of her 
art a personal matter. 

“He’s a spiritual toad,” she said relentlessly. 

Algeria’s deftness was inadequate in regaining 
the lost key, so she departed uttering fervid 
eulogies of her own. 

2 

Howard hurried in. Em held an open letter 
in her hand. 

“Has Algeria been here?” he asked, frowning. 

“She just left.” 

“I’ve run all over the Village looking for her. 
I’m giving a party here for her Thursday night 
and I’ve already invited most of the crowd, but 
I want to find out whom else she wants.” Em 
did not reply. “Will you help Celia with the 
refreshments?” 

“I shan’t be here,” said Em. 


190 


SINBAD 


Howard started. 

“Why not?” he demanded with annoyance. 

“I have a dinner.” 

“What dinner?” Irritation was rapidly gath¬ 
ering in his voice. 

“At Jen’s.” There was a conscious elation in 
her tone. I shall see Les- 

“Put it off.” He spoke dictatorially. He 
must have Em and Algeria together if he was 
to subdue Em. 

“I shall do no such thing.” Em raised her 
head fearlessly. 

“It must be an important function,” he 
sneered. “Who are the celebrities you can’t in¬ 
commode?” 

Em glanced at her letter. 

“Stuart and Jen and Les,” she said defiantly. 
Em’s eyes were bright, a slight color in her face. 
Her bearing was enticing. His eyes gleamed 
involuntarily. 

“Why, this is simply insulting Algeria!” he 
exclaimed angrily. “What has she done?” 
Loyalty to Algeria armed him against Em. 

“Nothing,” replied Em. “She’s a pill and 
a windbag, hut I’ve nothing against her. I’m 
simply not coming, that’s all.” Em did not no¬ 
tice her harshness. She was triumphant. The 
fact of Les being near made her unassailable. 
When Algeria was present Howard seemed to 



CAKE 191 

shrink up. Algeria subdued him. He grew 
dim to Em. 

Howard would not acknowledge that he hated 
to have Em force on him a deeper disillusion of 
Algeria. Algeria in the flesh was already a bur¬ 
den. But she meant freedom from Em. He 
sought for escape from his real provocation. 

“Then it’s I you wish to discipline!” he re¬ 
torted menacingly. “Well, the easiest way to 
feed your vanity is to hurt someone.” 

3 

Genevieve’s dinner was a sad affair. 

Em had spent an inordinate amount of time 
adorning herself. A plain gray silk dress, hair 
arranged and rearranged until it exactly pleased 
her, careful rouging—her cheeks were growing 
hollow—a single long string of green glass beads 
—how thin my neck is!—nails perfect, eyes ex¬ 
cited. 

When she rang at the little tenement and was 
admitted by Genevieve herself, Les was sitting 
with Stuart on the broad couch. Les looked pale 
and haggard. Em had fancied herself rushing 
again into his arms, but as he rose she could only 
hesitate and hold out her hand. Even Genevieve 
and Stuart were outsiders. 

“Hello, Les.” 

“Hello, Em.” 

“Stuff!” said Genevieve brusquely to Em. 


192 


SINBAD 


“Kiss him, you little goose!” Em and Les kissed 
timidly. Stuart stared with melancholy approval 
through the smoke from his pipe. “Now let’s 
have dinner before it gets cold,” Genevieve con¬ 
tinued, almost bustling about in her tension. This 
was the cool, languid Genevieve! “You sit here, 

Les, and Em there. Come, Stuart-” She 

managed the moments like a presiding officer. 
I’ll be a wreck before the evening’s over, she 
thought desperately. 

The conversation would not come. Genevieve 
tried frantically. 

“It’s nice to have you here again.” 

“Thank you,” said Les. 

“Like old times.” 

Silence. 

Even Stuart attempted to talk. 

Until she saw Cicely with Les, Em had not 
emotionally realized that she had lost him as a 
sex partner. Les’s presence without Cicely did 
not remove the pain. Cicely’s form in Em’s 
fancy was always at his side. 

Les’s heart ached. What have I done? 
Never . . . 

Em and Les beyond help. Finally each went 
home. 

“My God!” Genevieve burst into tears on 
Stuart’s shoulder. 



CAKE 


193 


4 

Howard’s spite at her repudiation of his party- 
spurred his desire to make Em jealous of 
Algeria. He was devoted to Algeria, planned 
constantly for Algeria’s diversion, was seen with 
Algeria early and late. With Les apart from 
Cicely Em would not have succumbed. But it 
was borne in on her that both the men she had 
elected to prefer no longer preferred her. 

Although Em’s absence from his party was 
the seal of Howard’s defeat, he still wished to do 
her post-bellum injury. He resented her defec¬ 
tion as he had once resented having to acknowl¬ 
edge her to others. In the same way he had 
formerly hated her for being a greater artist than 
himself, and now he could not forgive her for 
accomplishing nothing. She was even going off 

physically- She had been no credit to him 

either personally or in public. 

The morning after the party. Howard 
ostentatiously abstracted. Em came into the 
living-room and could see him through the open 
door of the kitchenette as, his tall figure wrapped 
in a gray dressing-gown, he prepared his coffee. 
She felt peculiarly depressed and hesitant. 

“Good morning, Howard.” She had waited in 
vain for him to speak to her. 

Howard answered over his shoulder. 



194 


SINBAD 


“Good morning.” He began very softly to 
whistle a theme from “Pelleas and Melisande.” 

Em came and stood uneasily in the doorway. 

“Can I help? Have you made enough coffee 
for both of us?” 

Without glancing at her, Howard lifted the 
lid of the percolator and peered in. 

“I think so.” 

Forcing herself to overcome the desire to im¬ 
molate herself which she had brought from her 
meeting with Les, she placed some dishes on a 
table by one of the windows in the living-room. 
Howard brought out the coffee and toast and 
they began their meal. Em watched him fur¬ 
tively, ashamed of her anxiety as to his reactions 
toward her. Where is my pride? 

Howard was perfectly conscious of Em’s un¬ 
easiness. Her presence in the house after seeing 
Les at Genevieve’s in some way convinced him 
that she would stay. Even if she went, she must 
come back. She would not leave him with 
Algeria. Howard had learned of Cicely. He 
had grown confident. His wounds were healing. 
Algeria would help him make Em pay. He 
lighted a cigarette and, as he smoked and sipped 
his coffee, stared through the window at the 
damp roofs opposite glistening in the pearly 
morning light. Sparrows quarreling in a tin 
gutter. Lilac spiral of smoke rising from a 
chimney. Howard admitted some apprehen- 


CAKE 


195 


siveness but he was determined to express to Em 
nothing but satisfaction and well-being. 

“How was the party?” she asked with a nerv¬ 
ous effort. The coffee nauseated her and the 
toast seemed tasteless. 

“Oh, what a party always is.” His agreeable 
tone suggested that something other than the 
party—some more intimate memory—was re¬ 
sponsible for his complacent abstraction. He 
added: “Of course Algeria was the party—she 
always is. It’s amusing the way these people 
down here in the Village fight for a chance to 
pour oblations before her.” 

Em tried not to feel spiteful. 

“She has a very compelling personality.” Em 
recognized Algeria’s force. I must be honest 
about it. She has personality—and charm—the 
personality of a successful vaudeville artist. She 
should be a great actress. Algeria’s adamant 
will where her own interests were touched, her 
dominance over her superiors by tricks just crude 
enough to be unanswerable—some Jews have 
this genius—these Em instinctively divined. 

Howard flecked ash from his cigarette. He 
felt Em’s suppressed attitude of condescension 
toward Algeria. It seemed to him an indirect 
condescension to himself. It made him resent 
Algeria more, and blame Em violently for his 
added resentment. His eyes, staring deliberately 


196 


SINBAD 


away from her, hardened in bitterness. He 
smiled to himself as if unconsciously. 

“I wonder what are the components of Al¬ 
geria’s personality. Of course an acute mind— 
she never fools herself. And then, too, she has 
that saving attribute, a sense of humor.” 

Em gazed steadily at Howard. She felt ill 
physically, and there was a horrible mental illness 
in her consciousness that her body was sick. 

“I don’t think she has much humor.” 

“Why not?” For the first time, pugnaciously, 
Howard met Em’s eyes with his hard bright ones. 

“She’d laugh at herself oftener than she does.” 

“My dear Em.” Howard was conspicuously 
patient. “Algeria always laughs at herself. 
That’s why she is so delightful. She is too pro¬ 
foundly a pessimist to take anything seriously. 
You probably haven’t caught her spirit because 
your own deadly seriousness has excluded you 
from participation. Take care that she doesn’t 
laugh at you, too.” 

Tears rose to Em’s eyes. She could not hide 
them from Howard’s mercilessly detached 
scrutiny. I look ugly. I can’t help it. She 
tried to harden herself against him. If he feels 
like this I oughtn’t to care. 

Howard was inwardly jubilant. He was 
salving his old injuries. In their early days his 
acuteness had discovered that any praise of other 
women’s attraction was accepted by Em as an 


CAKE 


197 


implied comparison. He knew exactly what to 
say. She doesn’t dream how much I’ve suf¬ 
fered— 

“I suppose she does laugh at me!” Em’s 
pride came. “It would just be a part of her 
shallow philosophy to laugh at anything real. 
Like an ant laughing at—at an avalanche.” 

Howard’s lip twitched. His eyes were angry, 
hut he tried to seem amused. 

“Pooh!” What bombast—sickening! “Al¬ 
geria realizes as all intelligent people do that 
since the war the world’s a joke.” 

“It always was, in that sense. It hasn’t 
changed any. Why doesn’t she think she’s part 
of the joke?” 

“She does.” 

“I don’t believe it.” 

Howard began to feel at bay. He could not 
weather reversals. 

“A beautiful woman can’t really be expected 
to be serious—not as a habit.” It was as if he 
were defending himself. He could not forgive 
Em for forcing him to this explanation of 
Algeria. 

“Beautiful!” Em’s cheeks flushed. The 
warmth of blood in them hurt her. She was 
angry at what seemed to her the preposterous¬ 
ness of Howard’s exaggeration. He only says 
that to bait me, she said to herself. At the same 
time the comparison he suggested was insidious. 



198 


SINEAD 


Once in a moment of analysis and with noi 
intent of malice he had, in his inhuman detach¬ 
ment as an artist, remarked that Em’s mind, a 
crystalline something, attracted and compelled 
men rather than her body. He had noted her 
emotional confusion and her effort to avoid ad¬ 
mitting the hurt of his words. Now he watched 
her jealously. Algeria! she thought. Is that 

what men reallv admire ? Even Les— One had 

%/ 

just as well face it—the elemental basis of rela¬ 
tionship between men and women. You have to 
please. Then they will let you love them. 
Howard spoke. 

“Why, yes. I think Algeria is often quite 
beautiful. Don’t let jealousy prejudice you, 
Em.” He laughed boyishly, feeling somehow 
released from the humiliation of defending 
Algeria. 

“I’m certainly not jealous! I couldn’t be—of 
her.” 

Howard thought quickly of Les. Has their 
reconciliation really been a go? Why isn’t she 
more affected by this? His expression, in an 
attempt to conceal the changes of his emotion, 
became sarcastic. 

“Of course you’re jealous. There are two 
types of women—those who have minds and 
those who have bodies. They always envy each 
other. The woman of brains wants to be con- 


CAKE 199 

sidered a siren, and the woman with a beautiful 
body insists that you discover her soul.” 

Em had accepted in advance all the inferences 
about herself. She despised Howard for his 
cruelty. How can he! Doesn’t he see any pathos 
in me? He wants to pity himself. I’d never 
torture him for what he can’t help. 

“I thought you said Algeria had both beauty 
and wit.” 

“She has; but of course for all her mental 
acuteness she is preeminently a body. Algeria 
would have lovers if she were stupid.” 

Em thought of Algeria’s faded piquancy, her 
dyed hair, her disenchanting appearance in street 

dress- But she was affected just the same. 

Self-distrust had poisoned her too deeply. 

Howard had begun to use his insight to torture 
Em for destroying his illusion of Algeria, and 
for ignoring Algeria’s jealousy of her. The 
pathos of Em’s naked desire to receive from him 
a sign of her physical power had rehabilitated 
his faith in himself. 


5 

Em was afraid. She now argued with Howard 
for kindness as Les had pleaded with her. But 
the time had come when she and Howard were 
no more able to speak each other’s language than 
she and Les had been. Em’s love for pain was 
that of a drug addict: more and more was re- 



200 


SINBAD 


quired. She had sought to seize life through 
suffering. The god of pain was dead. 

Left alone Howard and Em’s affair would by 
now have been naturally effete. They had gotten 
everything from each other. But Les’s return 
—and Cicely—with Howard’s appeal to Algeria, 
had injected something new and imponderable. 
Its momentum of waste and strife carried it on. 
Though tortured on both sides, Em could not 
give up both and have her individual self-respect. 

After Howard’s inhumanness she went to see 
Les. Cicely was there, but departed at once, 
almost eagerly, and left them alone. Her gar¬ 
ments hanging in the room were like flames to 
Em’s flesh. They could not talk, Les was too 
kind. She was beating against mist. His 
thoughts were his own. A frozen river- 

When Em returned to the apartment she felt 
bewildered. Les and I couldn’t have gone on. 
Why should I mind! She felt she could never 
reveal herself. She could not paint. She was 
penniless. Dust! 

Howard came. When he entered the room 
his first quick glance noted her listless attitude as 
she sat by a window staring into the street. He 
wanted something violent to happen, but he did 
not have the courage to precipitate the kind of 
crisis that would have relieved him. 

“Howard, I must talk to you.” 



CAKE 201 

His mouth was grim and frustrate. He had 
decided to be unyielding. 

“I have nothing to say.” 

“Howard, I can’t stand it.” 

“Neither can I.” 

Howard found his conception of his own 
detachment was becoming ridiculous. He turned 
and left her. She does not see that I am in pain. 
Em was showing him the impossibility of escap¬ 
ing sentimental delusions. Muck! Give me 
more of Algeria’s poison— 

6 

Em threw herself on the couch. 

I’ll kill myself if my head goes wrong. She 
had never, felt that she need heed consequences. 
If a situation became impossible she could escape 
it like this. She tried to tell herself that she did 
not love life too much. Once she had said this 
to Howard. 

“Pooh!” he had replied. “You think if you’re 
reckless enough, someone will be aghast and 
interfere.” 

He could be neither a human being nor an 
artist. He had hated her because she could not 
help being an artist but wanted only to be a 
human being. 

I can’t live. She went to her bedroom and 
took a tiny bottle from a drawer. It was poison 
she had stolen from Toby’s room one night when 


202 


SINBAD 


he had cooked dinner there for them both. Toby 
was always experimenting with strange chemi¬ 
cals. She remembered the skull and cross-bones 
on the label of the green flask she had taken it 
from. 

“Oh, Les, Les-” she sobbed, but no tears 

came. 

She could have borne losing Howard to 
Algeria if Les had not been in New York. This 
is what it all comes to. Algeria. Pose. Sound. 
I hate it. Algeria the deification of Greenwich 
Village. Deformed with Christianity—exposing 
grotesque bodies in attitudes that mock their 
own pretense of paganism. She belongs there! 
The death of expression. Eaten my hope. 
Bohemia! Menagerie. Animals. No—animals 
are genuine. Marionettes. Ghosts. Greenwich 
Village is a monster. No one. My body is dry. 
Mitra. New York. Tread of elephants. Vil¬ 
lage. Wasps buzzing. Air! 

Les- Cicely! The betrayal of emotion to 

a third person. It isn’t Algeria. Em felt as if 
Cicely had stolen her pride—her reserve. Oh, 
Les, why did you— Howard! I did too. Emo¬ 
tion. Unseeing emotion. Emotion without 
object. Sick vanity. Em beat her face with 
her fists. 

Cicely’s soft breasts. Em threw the vial 
across the room. I can’t leave life with Les in 
it. She meant “with Cicely.” Her pride would 




CAKE 203 

not let her give her life to another woman. Cicely 
had saved her. 

Really she was still vacillating. How she 
admired and adored Les! But could she exist 
without the strain and stress with Howard that 
she felt was real in its pain? She was ashamed 
that she had not the courage to die. She was 
ashamed that she was clinging to Howard after 
he had tired of her. 


CHAPTER IV 

THE HAPPY ENDING 

“He who hred me up sold a certain young maid of Rome; 
•whom when I saw many years after, I remembered her, and 
began to love her as a sister. It happened some time 
afterwards that I saw her washing in the river Tyber; and 
I reached out my hand unto her, and brought her out of 
the river: and when I saw her, I thought with myself, 
saying. How happy should I be if I had such a wife, both 
for beauty and manners. This I thought with myself; nor 
did I think any thing more. But not long after, as I was 
walking, and musing on these thoughts, I began to honour 
this creature of God, thinking with myself how noble and 
beautiful she was. And when I had walked a little I fell 
asleep. And . . . the heaven was opened, and I saw the 
woman I had coveted, saluting me from heaven, and saying, 
Hermas, hail! and I looking upon her, answered. Lady, 
what dost thou do here?** 

“The Shepherd of Hermas** (Trans. Archbishop Wake) 

1 

Les thought he loved Cicely because she was 
comfortable. He was grateful to those who 
relieved him of self-expression. I adore people 
who draw no emotion. But he had seen Em. 
Em had never gone away. She was. He did 
not sleep. Thinking at night, Cicely relaxed and 

204 


THE HAPPY ENDING 


205 


quiet beside him. Slow years ... I hear the 
shadows . . . hours unfolding like petals . . . 
cliffs of white mist . . . road flying on like a 
bird . . . 

Cicely was not to blame. His dissatisfaction 
was with her sweetness. He leaned over and 
looked at her in the dim gathering light. She 
gave too much. He was ashamed that he found 
any burden in her giving. Her mouth drooped 
a little. She knew in her dreams. 

Dawn! Crimson banners of dawn . . . slay¬ 
ing the stars . . . tears of dew . . . gold arms 
of the sun . . . Cicely sat up and stretched her 
young body. Her gold-brown eyes were soft. 
Cicely had formerly worked downtown in an 
office. Living with Les had frightened her of 
life a little, but it made her feel superior to her 
undistinguished existence. 

“Are you awake, Les?” 

“Yes.” 

“Did you sleep well?” 

“Yes.” 

She seized him in her arms and kissed him. 

2 

Em rose early. She bathed and dressed care¬ 
fully. There was decision in her. I can’t paint 
and I won’t make my living in bed. She per¬ 
suaded herself that she had no intention of going 
to Les. Em felt that she could do without 


206 


SINBAD 


Howard, there were enough other things to hurt 
her. She was her own. 

Breakfast. Waiting for Howard. That she 
could not kill herself had clarified things to her. 
Her trunks were packed, her easel tied up. It 
was after ten o’clock when he came to the apart¬ 
ment. Cold good-mornings. He moved about 
the rooms collecting some etchings. 

“Howard, we must talk.” 

“There’s nothing to talk about,” he replied 
shortly. Howard had misjudged Em. What 
he had thought was patience with him had been 
an approaching indifference. It’s beginning 
over again, I don’t love the woman, he kept 
telling himself. Sexual mystifications, I’m 
through with it. Em had either to come through 
as an artist or die. I’m through with her unless 
she conforms to me. If she isn’t an artist, she’s 
nothing. None of us are. He felt cursed by his 
own banality, viciously anxious to achieve some¬ 
thing in his work. If I were self-deceived like 
the others, things would be easy for me, he 
thought. 

“It shall be our last talk,” said Em. 

Howard halted and looked at her keenly. She 
imagined there was gladness in his eyes. She 
was humiliated. He hasn’t the courage, she 
thought to comfort herself. He pulled forward 
a chair, seated himself wearily and lighted a 


THE HAPPY ENDING 207 

cigarette, his hand playing nervously with the 
chair arm. 

“What do you want, Em?” 

“I’m going.” She resented his lack of sur¬ 
prise. 

“Why should we have to talk about it?” He 
could repress himself strongly. Let her go. 
Algeria. She’ll come back. His air was almost 
insolent. 

Em wanted to break self-respectingly with 
Howard. She wanted to force him to prove to 
her that he was worthy of the moment. He must 
salve her vanity. He must show himself big 
enough to justify her for having allowed him to 
mean so much to her. 

“I want us to be friends, Howard.” 

“I hate friendship. Most people haven’t the 
guts to recognize death when they see it. Why 
dress up a corpse?” Howard was bearding 
danger. He was determined to compel her to 
cease stipulating. 

Em did not want a discussion. She needed 
an event. 

“Howard, 'must we end like this?” 

“Why did we ever begin?” His mouth was 
ugly. Algeria had deliberately overdone her 
suggestion to Howard. Algeria wanted to be 
rid of Em. So she had shrewdly led him to 
believe that Em could not be driven away. Far 
more cunningly had Algeria dropped into his 


208 SINBAD 

mind seeds of the idea that he was finished 
with Em. 

Em’s patience was ever short-lived, even when 
she wanted something. 

“I began because I thought we could be honest 
and live together decently for a while.” 

“We began honestly enough, why can’t we 
end so? Why the conventional lie? We’re 
through with each other. Your idea of honesty 
is telling disagreeable truths to someone for your 
own pleasure.” 

It was out now! He felt ill with despair which 
he would not attribute to Em. He loathed the 
memory of his etchings. He was through with 
them—through with everything. There was a 
stealthy undercurrent to this explanation of his 
emotions. He would not admit it. Em thought 
again of her desired scene. I can’t part with a 
quarrel. Howard looks ill. She was excited— 
sorry for him. She wished for the dignity of 
Les. 

“You’re not very gentle with people yourself, 
Howard.” 

“Gentleness is habitual timidity.” He threw 
his cigarette into the grate and rose. His eyes 
were implacable. 

Em’s head was up, her eyes antagonistic. She 
had forgotten her worthy parting scene. 

“Then why do you blame me? You’re very 
virtuous all at once!” 


THE HAPPY ENDING 


209 


“I admit to a few virtues. I may despise them 
as springing from cowardice, but the trouble with 
you is you can’t see they’re as necessary as if 
they didn’t.” I don't believe in virtue, he said 
to himself. Virtue isn’t necessary. What is 
necessary is to recognize dry rot of the emotions, 
but anything to get rid of her— His mind was 
clear at last! 

Em remembered. A gesture— She strove 
desperately to keep the upper hand, but she felt 
the occasion too much. She had something to 
lose. 

“I want you to know that I don’t see myself as 
you see me, Howard.” She was incapable of 
taking dialectical advantage, always a hostage 
to her own frankness. 

Howard observed her increased agitation. 

“You don’t see yourself at all. What you’ve 
always resented is that I do see you. The result 
has been a series of vulgar squabbles. You’ve 
convinced me of the value of good breeding.” 
Algeria echoing in him. 

“I don’t care for good breeding!” returned 

Em hotly. “I respect only something real-” 

Why breeding? They were eternally talking 
about breeding! 

“Breeding never does affect women. The 
most they ever learn is to appraise breeding in 
men, and you’ve never learned that. You disgust 



210 


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me with your idea that crudity is synonymous 
with reality. Damn reality!’’ 

Em began to feel the old-time thrill of his 
cruelty. 

“You’ve never learned to be human,” she 
accused bitterly. “All you care for is a shal¬ 
low artistic creed.” They were both regard¬ 
less. There’s no more hope for us now, she 
thought. 

“I care for what has never come into our rela¬ 
tion, a little beauty,” he retorted with equal 
bitterness. Algeria again. 

Em sprang to her feet. 

“I’ve had enough of beauty without any pity!” 
she cried with passionate emphasis. “To me 
beauty means something—something true.” 

“Blah!” exclaimed Howard. “And I’ve had 
enough of your predilection for hurting people 
and then wanting them to ‘understand’ it. There 
must be manners between lovers.” 

They stood facing each other angrily. They 
were drunk with pain. He had caused her so 
much pain that for a moment she could not bear 
the thought of losing him. Then pride rushed 
over her, she was drunk with disdain. She spoke 
very distinctly. 

“I’m glad I’ve hurt you.” Power was more 
than love. 

His face was contorted with defeat. Every¬ 
thing else was forgotten. He spoke for himself 
now. 


THE HAPPY ENDING 


211 


“You’ve got the blood-lust of a well-fed 
criminal,” he said brutally. 

Em, her face pale, her eyes luminous with 
wrath and suffering, seized a hat and coat and 
ran from the room. When she returned, late in 
the afternoon, it was to deliver her trunks and 
her easel to an expressman. Howard was not 
there. As she went out she laid her key on a 
table and pulled the self-locking door shut behind 
her. 

3 

Howard had given so little time to Em that 
days passed before any of his friends, except 
Algeria, knew she had left him. But Algeria 
gloated publicly. She had a cool brain, an 
accurate feeling for distant prevention. The 
retinue was assembling after dinner at Algeria’s 
studio. 

“That girl has lost dear Howard,” she an¬ 
nounced confidentially. 

“Elephants!” pondered Mitra, voice almost 
hidden. 

Celia only smiled. Gouvain rose and stared 
agitatedly at a statuette he loathed. 

“Poor Howard was never happy with her. 
She belongs to that unfortunate type of being 
who has ideals” Algeria confided to each comer. 
“Emily had a horrible idea of reforming the poor 
boy. We like to hear him sing. But then we’re 


212 


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not serious . Howard is a little the faun, but 
Emily, alas, is not a fauness.” 

It was impossible for Howard to avoid meeting 
Em. Fate was mischievous. On the street, 
Esther’s at dinner, twice in* the Square. Em 
would not slink away from her haunts. Howard 
exerted his best skill. The only solace was that 
Algeria was with him each time. Algeria em¬ 
barrassed him. Em had made him secretly 
ashamed of Algeria. But now he was glad he 
had Algeria to scout Em. Algeria did hurt Em. 
They had common acquaintances. Algeria con¬ 
tinually implied that she had taken Howard from 
Em. Les’s clear-eyed girl friend met Algeria 
on the street: she was interested in what might 
affect Les. 

“I hear that Howard Story-” she began 

hesitatingly. 

In the harshness of street clothes Algeria’s 
vague heaviness of line was emphasized—what 
was subtly soft in shimmering draperies became 
merely undistinguished. Her body appeared 
stolid and commonplace, in the coldness of sun¬ 
light her winsome grimaces were ineffective. 
She looked handsome, capable, cold, and almost 
matronly. In a measure she herself realized 
this. Her dramatic sense of fitness made her 
instinctively adapt herself to the limitations of 
her appearance, and her daytime manner was 
factual and subdued. 



THE HAPPY ENDING 


213 


“Yes, we have the dear boy back,” she said 
soberly. “He’s so much more like himself now. 
The trouble with the girl was that she was trying 
to make Howard over. We don’t care about his 
faults. Emily is one of those terribly deadly 
earnest people, you know. She would consider 
Arcady an immoral place!” 

Em did not talk. One night at the old neigh¬ 
borhood restaurant. Em dining alone. Algeria, 
respectfully followed by one of the male satel¬ 
lites, sailed to the next table. Em tried not to 
see them. 

“Did Mr. Story-” The voice of Algeria’s 

companion was fuzzy and carried badly. 

“Yes, dear Howard was almost ill after my 
last party. I kept him all night and put ice on 
his poor head. We had been reading some of 
that new man’s stuff—the Macauleyflowers of 
prose, you know.” Algeria laughed sweetly. 

The satellite humbly mumbled something 
inaudible. 

Em suddenly found herself angry and de¬ 
sponding, unable to keep her poise. She rose 
and went out. Her pride could not bear that 
Algeria .should be her successor. The night 
street was still thronged. Em walked along it, 
through the welter of lights, the noise, the flash¬ 
ings of motor lamps. Reflections on the steel 
rails of car-tracks made them like thin lines of 
snail slime up the black avenue. There was no 



214 


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end to anything. Em longed to make herself 
insensible with noise and light in the crowd to 
which she was unknown. 

4 

Em alone. Only Gouvain tried to see her— 
secretly from Algeria. She had not told Les or 
Genevieve of her break with Howard. Her tiny 
room was a cell. Straggly back-yards she could 
see through her window! Airless walls opposite. 
One tree, swelling with tight buds, leaned up 
and scraped her glass. The days were yet cold. 
She did not even set up her easel. Something 

in me is going. I must have- I’m too weak! 

I can’t live in myself. 

She went to see Les. She had lost her pride. 
His smile was good. She was glad she was 
away from Howard’s rooms. 

“Les, I’m living in a hall bedroom on Charles 
Street.” 

He wrote the number in a book. 

“Have you-?” 

“Yes, Les.” 

Cicely was not there, but her clothes hanging 
in the room still burned and revolted Em. Look¬ 
ing at them she felt physically degraded, yet 
unable to protest—caught in her own act. 

Les sat thinking. The hand of God . . . 

His solid homeliness comforted her. The 
narrow mouth, set in a stern line of repression. 




THE HAPPY ENDING 


215 


dominating his face. The deep-set eyes and 
well-lobed ears. Suddenly her heart melted to 
him. She forgot everything else. His downcast 
gentleness wrenched at her. He was her mourn¬ 
ful child. How Howard would despise such a 
feeling! Les will let me. I must love some¬ 
thing. She felt apologetic of her need to love. 
Howard had proved it all false. But she couldn’t 
help it. No use trying to be clear and conscious 
about life. She wanted something to keep her 
warm. 

“Oh, Les-” She sank to her knees beside 

his chair and sobbed against him. 

He trembled but could not speak. Can I live 
again? Alone on a sea of glass . . . ship-lights 
at night . . . gulls crying in the dark . . . 
screaming spirits . . . sunlight on a dead man’s 
face . . . He knew Em was all he cared for, 
more than his life. But had he strength? 

“Remember I’m much older than you, Em.” 
I can’t go through it again. She raised her face 
and knew by his eyes that he would have her. 
Les, Les— “I’m coming to see you, Em, but 
first I must-” 

Cicely! 

Em struggled to her feet. She tried to speak 
to him, but could not. He pressed her hand. 
She turned and rushed blindly out. 




216 


SINBAD 


5 

Les wished for Carl. 

Carl had shared with him. There had been 
no asking. A golden thread between them. 
Women. Radiant fiends. Pale as dreams . . . 
Carl was in London but he could touch Carl. 

Cicely returned. She threw off her coat 
happily, dark cheeks glowing, gold-brown eyes 
smiling. 

“Now I’ll get my boy some dinner.” 

“Wait, Cicely-” 

He told her. The crime of manhood. Cicely 
lay crumpled on the bed. She tried to blame 
someone, but was too hurt. Les’s heart ached. 
I had to— No living thing is merciful. Hands 
cold as snow . . . The garden of death . . . 
Mouth red for kisses, twisted in pain. Divine 
pity— Tears from a harlot’s eyes! There are 
no stars to see her die . . . 

When Les had gone Cicely got up and packed 
her things neatly. 

Les went several places before he rang the bell 
at Em’s number. A scrawny woman with thick 
spectacles opened the door. There was a rubber 
plant in the red-carpeted hall. The stairway 
smelled of stale food. He walked heavily up¬ 
stairs. Les was tired. He felt the suspicious 
gaze of the spectacled woman fixed on his back. 
At Em’s door he knocked. She threw it back 



THE HAPPY ENDING 


217 


and halted breathless, looking at him through 
blind tears of surprise and relief. 

“Les!” Em could only weep convulsively. 

“Can your things go? A man is coming for 
them.” 

“Oh, Les, Les-” 

“We can have our place at Jane Street back. 
I’ve been there.” 

She huddled to him. How peaceful his voice 
is! She would come back the next day and settle 
her account with the landlady. Arm in arm they 
passed down the stairs and through the ill-smell¬ 
ing house again. Going home together! In the 
street a tremulous sigh. 

“Les, I adore you!’' 

The Polish janitress was in the hall as they en¬ 
tered the Jane Street house. Em loved the cold 
clean floors, the shabby familiarity of the place. 

“Good evening, Mr. Drane, good evening, 
Mrs. Drane.” The stout janitress smiled and 
stood aside for them as in the old days. But she 
looked at Em cautiously. 

“Good evening,” they called back, Em’s voice 
sweet with happiness. 

The fat woman’s eyes followed Les affection¬ 
ately as he ascended the stairs after Em. All the 
strange doors on the landings. I never knew 
who lived here, thought Em. It seemed wonder¬ 
ful to have Les in the horrible cold city world. 
I’m happy! Oh, I’m so happy! 



CHAPTER V 

THE FEAR OF LIFE 


“There was once a King and a Queen, and they had 
twelve children, all hoys. One day the King said to his 
wife: ‘If our thirteenth child is a girl, all her twelve 
brothers must die, so that she may he very rich and the 
kingdom hers alone!* . . . When the brothers heard of this 
they were very angry, and said: ‘Shall we suffer death for 
the sake of a girl? Let us vow that wherever we shall meet 
one of her sex she shall die*at our hands * ** 

The Brothers Grimm — “Hausmarchen** 

(Trans. Anonymous) 


1 

Manhattan narrow like a street, street of 
the world, sooner or later one meets everybody. 

Sir David Grove, Les’s old rival and colleague: 

neck and neck, honors even, each had magnified 

the other’s discoveries, respectful friends. Sir 

David Grove, K.C.B., F.R.S., honorary degrees 

from a dozen universities, alphabetical Sir David, 

titles in imposing inverted pyramids under his 

name, covering half the title-page of each of his 

books. Drawer full of decorations. They do 

these things better in England. Big Sir David, 

body of a squire, huge peasant beard, eyes like 

218 


THE FEAR OF LIFE 


219 


God’s friend, seeing everything. Voice big like 
himself. Bang! into each other in the midst of 
Fifth Avenue—no escape. 

“Damme if it isn’t -!” Sir David 

sounded a name that startled Les. My old name! 
Why hasn’t he forgotten it? 

“Hello, Grove.” 

“Come into the Union League here. Jove, 
what luck!” Les followed, half-stupefied. Sir 
David whispered something to an attendant. 
“Sit down, sit down, my dear fellow. That’s an 
easy chair.” Les sank into the chair. “Where 
have you been ? Your monograph on the Pleuro- 
tomidse is out, I suppose you’ve seen. Read 
the proof myself, damn you! Your university 
wrote that you were dead! New genus named 
for you. Good plates. Eisenwein of Vienna had 
a fit, started to revise his whole life work on your 
new theories, ha, ha, ha!” Les drank dreamily 
from a glass of something that had appeared 
on the little table between them. Sir David 
boomed along. “Glad to see you, suppose you’ve 
been on a little expedition of your own, what did 
you get? But seriously, my dear chap, you must 
get down and finish up some things with me. 
Poor old Latour at the Jardin des Plantes has 
got the Rhabdoccela all balled up. I can’t go 
into it, you know, I’ve got the Pterobranchia and 
several other groups to do, and I’m fifty-six. 
Grabowitz in Moscow is coming on very well 




220 


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with the Siphonostomata, or would be if that 
little pissant Denny at Cromwell Road weren’t 
eternally publishing half-baked guesses that get 
into the literature, he doesn’t know an Ento- 
mostracan from an Ascidian. Of course, as you 
know, some new material must be found to clear 
up lacunae and so forth, and here’s the plan.” 
Sir David bent forward in his chair. “A new 
expedition, adequate scale, Seychelles, Celebes, 
the Andamans, and whole zoo- and phyto-area 
necessary, every detail planned, in fact only eight 
weeks off, I’m over here for last touches in appa¬ 
ratus. Come along as co-director with me.” Sir 
David leaned back, paused for breath, and 
dragged a big brier pipe from his coat pocket. 

Les’s cheeks tingled with a little color but he 
did not look up. Em ... Is life beginning 
again? Helplessly conscious of grandiloquence. 
Her eyes on him. I can’t leave Em now. The 
courage of a greater fear. What is love? 
Souls ... I’ll never leave her. He thought of 
himself as making an epic sacrifice. 

“I suppose you know there’s been a scandal.” 

Sir David laughed till the room rang. 

“Rubbish! You remember my—well, with 
little Polly? Now the Dowager Lady Seccombe, 
bless ’er? All forgotten. I guessed so. Fact 
Twichell said something about the newspapers 
—I never read’em. But what of it? What does 
the scientific world care about—I tell you they 
can’t spare us, my dear boy!” 


THE FEAR OF LIFE 


221 


Les raised his eyes. 

“I’m afraid I can t come, awfully fine of you 
of course.” 

Sir David pulled his riotous beard thought¬ 
fully. 

“Too bad, of course Twichell will jump at it, 
he’s the next best one; but curse him, he hasn’t a 
dynamic conception of a species. There’s a 
dozen with their mouths all fixed up for it. Hum, 
I suppose you know best.” 

Les got up. 

“Nice to have seen you again.” 

As he disappeared Sir David reared his great 
length and walked twice up and down the empty 
room, studiously contemplating his own huge 
heavily shod feet. At last, blowing out a dense 
cloud of smoke, he knocked the ashes from his 
pipe and tapped his forehead solemnly with his 
forefinger. Then he went in to his luncheon. 

2 

With Em gone to Les, Howard and Algeria 
did not quite know what to do with their own 
new relation. Algeria seemed childish to How¬ 
ard. Her airy defense had been excellent in 
youth, but it gradually intensified with time, like 
a grisly coquetry in a fast-aging woman. The 
whole reason for enduring seemed, gone with 
Em, but he would not give up. She admires me, 
he insisted subbornly to himself. He allowed 


222 


SINBAD 


himself to be pushed into the background, how¬ 
ever. He, with Carmen’s help, had really been 
ruling Algeria’s circle in her absence. Now he 
tried to believe his vanity amused that the group 
preferred her. She was more their intellectual 
size. A good ideal! He tried to enlarge himself 
with the magnitude of his contempt, to make it 
include everyone. Howard was not given to 
drink. But he wished he could be drunk—physi¬ 
cally—with anything. To forget. 

To keep him diverted Algeria plunged into an 
orgy of parties. Algeria’s parties were amazing 
events. She continually invited people—people 
who could not possibly mix—because they had 
“done” something. Then she attempted to make 
them perform. Usually, like babies or pets, they 
refused to show off until Algeria became elfishly 
panicky and drank more and more wine, at last 
mazily persuading herself that all wa3 going 
delightfully. 

Algeria was a genius in capturing and focus¬ 
ing the attention of a group on herself. But her 
talent was special and personal. She could not 
direct a gathering. One evening she had assem¬ 
bled a collection of diminutive celebrities. A 
threatened fiasco had driven her to such a state 
of alcoholic defenselessness that jealous poetic 
rivals had even succeeded in preventing her from 
reading her own almost endless poem, “The Elf 
Lover.” The Passionate Poetess (the hapless 



THE FEAR OF LIFE 


223 


Stieg silent in leash), with the mastery of a situ¬ 
ation that never failed, had wrested the reins 
from the wittily despairing Algeria and was in 
full sway. 

Howard arrived late. As he opened the door 
his glance took in Algeria, composed of blue and 
mauve stringers this time, unsteadily holding 
court in a corner of the big room—Carmen, Celia, 
Gouvain, and the satellites surrounding her—the 
rebellious P. P. in charge of the program of 
entertainment. 

“We’re in the midst of a reading,” the P. P. 
whispered impressively to Howard as he made 
his way through the crowd to Algeria and her 
entourage. He had hardly seated himself when 
the P. P. clapped her plump hands for attention. 
“Mr. Klobber will now recite an unpublished 
poem to an original accompaniment on his man- 
doguitar.” 

There was a rustle of expectation as an anemic 
young man with misty spectacled eyes and trem¬ 
bling nostrils shambled forth holding a ukelele- 
like instrument and seated himself nervously on 
a geometrical chair near the center of the room. 
To a running tinkle of pleasant shallow sound 
he intoned with intense pathos. 

“Here— 

There — 

Everywhere . 

Kittens — 


224 


SINBAD 


Yellow butterflies . 

One in one 
Being two 
Is two . 

Little two, 

Will you be my one? 

Me, too!” 

As the light applause died away after the final 
rickety flourish of the strings, a mountain of a 
woman in a soiled lace gown exploded with 
cavernous voice: 

“Subtle!” 

“He has a tricksy art,” piped a perky-faced 
little spinster near her. 

Hand-claps again from the P. P. 

“Juaquin Pilcher will now read an unpublished 
poem.” 

A mad-eyed young man with a whorl of wiry 
rebellious hair rose suddenly from his chair and 
read monotonously. 

“Rather, 

Mon cher. 

Notice that the moon 
Is a pustule: 

That women have legs — 

Not limbs. 

But legs; 

Whafs more 
Bellies , 


THE FEAR OF LIFE 


225 


Garbage underneath. 

But this is of no moment. 

Garbage hidden under the snow. 

Garbage 

Is my apology 

“Subtle!” coughed the lace mountain. 

“Strong, very strong!” piped the echo. 

Howard stared at Pilcher. Eyes, hair—he’s 
like me, thought Howard panically. There but 
for the grace of God— There came over him a 
positive terror of Greenwich Village and its 
absurdities. Algeria had been holding his hand. 
He drew it away. I ought to think this ridicu¬ 
lous. Am I ridiculous? Art versus life! Ha! 
Slush- 

Hand-claps. 

“Miss Rosemarie Bean will now read an un¬ 
published poem,” announced the P. P. 

A Pre-Raphaelite maiden with pale red hair 
half rose and then reseated herself in confusion. 
“The title is part of the poem,” she prefaced 
guiltily. 


“IT WAS SAID BY MORE 

Than one c the impene¬ 
trable introvert to 
Be integral with¬ 
out the facti¬ 
tious device of 



226 


SINBAD 


A conning tower 9 to 
Filch security from ob¬ 
vious outwardness must sp? 

in the unobserved in¬ 
to a construct of a- 
lien vision. Wheth¬ 
er the ‘pale rho¬ 
dodendrons of 
Fancy’ are erected as 
Two facts or one 
Is immaterial ” 

“Subtle!” from the bass-voiced mountain. 

“Intellectually intense,” from the echo. 

Claps. 

“Miss Sybil Spinther, an unpublished poem.” 
Miss Spinther shakes her head and whispers in 
terror to the P. P. “Well,” announces the P. P. 
in a relieved tone, “by request I will now read 
one of my own unpublished poems.” Clearing 
her throat and adjusting her spectacles she began 
to read in a high shrill voice. 

“Not yet the irrefutable implacable 
Singing its wild song in Avenue A 
Amidst hot tides of flesh , 

Turgid loins seeking —" 

Howard rose. The P. P. was good for half 
an hour at least. Algeria seized him alluringly. 


THE FEAR OF LIFE 227 

“We can’t bear to see Pan dishonored, can 
we?” she whispered sympathetically. 

“Let me get out of here,” he replied in a 
petulant undertone. 

Algeria pouted. 

“I thought it would amuse you, dearestie,” 
she reproached. 

“It has,” said Howard viciously. He tiptoed 
from the room, the P. P.’s voice blaring after him 
into the hall and down the stairs. 

Ugh! he breathed as he reached the street. 
Fake artists. Puny scribblers. Tin-pot Nietz- 
scheans. Tramps. Idiots. Em was— I’m 
done with Greenwich Village. The place for 
those who have nothing. Why should the damned 
spot devastate one so! Good God! First Drane 
and then Em and now I’m finally disgusted with 
it. Algeria never would be. It had made her. 
Howard told himself over and over that he was 
sick of the belated romanticism of Bohemia. 

3 

Howard was now living at Algeria’s studio. 
They had never before publicly been lovers. 
Algeria would never acknowledge that she had 
had lovers. Now she advertised it broadcast. 
His only protest was a stinging manner with her 
friends. She was physically repugnant to him. 
Her body had a soft look, not shapeless but 
blurred. Getting heavy under the throat. Too 


228 


SINBAD 


thick through the waist, the shoulders too wide, 
her breasts sag. He feared to see her in the 
daytime, she looked worse then. He wanted to 
drink with her, to make it easier to take her. He 
recalled her lewd visioning of sex. 1STo wonder 
she sees it like that! His artistic vanity was 
included. 

Howard missed Em, he would not from pride 
admit how much. Algeria guessed it, and as he 
neglected her more and more her jealousy of 
Em grew more virulent. Once Howard men¬ 
tioned having seen Em. 

“Howard’s pagan —his wood-woman” ex¬ 
plained Algeria in a sugary tone to the Hungry 
Soul who, with others, had come to worship. 

“The sublimation to an ideal of the erotic-” 

began the Hungry Soul. 

“Sublimation to tommyrot!” interrupted 
Howard violently. “Miss Tyler is-” 

“Of course she is,” Algeria’s silvery voice 
glided in. “When you see that nice girl again, 
Howard, give her my love . Tell her she is a 
ripper, simply a ripper . Oh, no, don’t say 
exactly that, you know. Tell her I can never 
forget her. She is a person one really cares for.” 
A pause and Algeria added with a winning smile, 
“Or, no, you can tell her she is a ripper, after all. 
She’ll probably like that more than you or 1 
would!” 

“Damn your malice,” growled Howard with 




THE FEAR OF LIFE 


229 


suppressed rage. The Hungry Soul was by this 
time obliviously discussing psychic sexual intro¬ 
version with the other visitors. 

“Sh-h-h!” whispered Algeria cautiously, with 
an innocent look. “You and I understand, peetie. 
I was only trying to take in the other stupids.” 

This continuous presence of mind of Algeria’s 
annoyed him unbearably. Whenever she essayed 
to insult someone and the tables were turned she 
deftly took the intended victim into her con¬ 
fidence. Nothing could possibly dent her conceit. 
When Howard was most restive and irritable she 
never dreamed of looking within herself for the 
reason. She saw all his superficial defects but 
took no responsibility for analyzing their origin. 

“I was never so bored in my life,” he com¬ 
plained. 

“Sweetesty, it’s because other women bother 
you. They think they will get you away. I see 
that you are only nice to them. I know that you 
adore me, and it’s hard for you. We ought to be 
together alone more. But I can’t escape people. 
There are so many who really exist because of 
me.” 

Howard looked at her round face drawn into 
a mimicry of solemnity. Algeria smiling and 
heavily triumphant in a crowd—even Algeria 
dextrously malignant in a group—was bearable. 
But Algeria alone and serious—unhumorous and 
wifely. It was too much! 



230 


SINBAD 


She was often bored with him. 

“Howard’s developing a soul,” she told Gou- 
vain, “and after I’ve wasted myself admiring his 
tiresome etchings for him!” 

Algeria was a true superwoman—she could 
not fail! 

“I’m sick of things,” Howard grumbled 
peevishly. 

“Of course you are, dearestie,” she replied, 
patting his cheek. “You and I will go back to 
Paris next winter.” 

He could not insult her. Her confidence 
invited awe. Her superiority to pride was too 
gorgeous. 

Since Howard had come to her Algeria now 
also persuaded herself that Mitra had long been 
secretly in love with her. Magnanimously she 
keyed her manner to a delicate sympathy that 
stirred his silent immobile amusement. She 
began to hate Celia for having Mitra, told herself 
that it was only because Celia was young and 
delectable physically. Algeria implied by her 
sympathetic attitude toward Mitra that she 
knew he too would some day come back to her. 

When she stroked his hand he would exclaim 
pensively: 

“Elephants!” 

She wondered if he were sometimes laconically 
malicious, but as her emotions were not involved 
she resolved to content herself with his offering. 


THE FEAR OF LIFE 


231 


4 

The brief affair of Howard and Algeria was 
breaking up. He showed too plainly that he was 
ashamed of her. Algeria was beginning to 
consider him no longer worth the indignities to 
which his attitude exposed her. 

“Algeria’s all right, but as an artist she’s a 
joke.” Cheap Greenwich Village faker, he 

thought, how could I ever have- He thought 

of Em. Clean cut- 

He never lingered near Algeria. She was 
cruelly active in discovering his faults to others, 
but when her group was gathered at her studio 
in the evening she tried to make Howard drunk 
to be rid of the annoyance of deceiving him. 
Their drunken carousals disgusted him. She 
spoke of them wittily. 

“Howard and Pierre and Carmen and that 
Titian-haired Jewish girl had so much magic last 
night that finally they all fell in a Bacchic heap, 
didn’t they?” she said guilelessly at lunch. 

“Who was on top ?” inquired Celia impudently. 
“I was too drunk to see.” 

Howard flirted outrageously. When they 
were alone, Howard sober, Algeria’s irritation 
grew crass. 

“You leave that little pink-headed Jewess 
alone, do you hear me?” 

Her eyes, too far apart, were like an angry 




232 


SINBAD 


cow’s. Algeria’s subtleties were all professional. 

“Look here, Algeria,” said Howard wrath- 
fully. “I’m going.” They were both secretly 
relieved at his decision. 

“To leave me?” she asked incredulously. Her 
blank handsome face was almost pathetic. 

Howard recalled their many years of varied 
relation, of her solace when, hungry for praise, 
he first began to etch. Unconsciously he thought 
of the future. Algeria’s self-responsibility still 
impressed him in spite of his disgust. He saw 
through her, but had to respect her volitional 
integrity and independence of action. Algeria 
had power in his world. 

“I’ve got* to be alone,” he said sullenly. “I 
must do something.” 

At the very moment of parting she was con¬ 
vinced that he was not really bored. She was 
eased at his going. She imagined that she could 
control him better at a distance. 

“I understand , dearestie. You’re very sen¬ 
sitive and must have time to work.” My God, 
she’s turning sedate again, thought Howard, 
thank heaven I’m getting out! “I’ll be freer 
this summer and we can run away to the country 
where not a soul can find us.” Her smile was 
inviolably radiant. “Peetie, you and I are the 
only ones who know how to follow the Dame” 
(so Algeria on Beauty), “but now I feel we must 
seek her— apart” Algeria’s gaze was rapt—as 


THE FEAR OF LIFE 


233 


when she repeated her poems—she seemed to 
behold a vision of herself and Howard, still 
spiritually joined in the pursuit of the artist’s 
Ideal as it soared before their romantically united 
souls. 

Algeria was of the truly great. Howard was 
obliged to accept her interpretation. He moved 
back to his apartment. Not dictation but pro¬ 
longed conferences with Algeria had driven him 
away. She plunged back into the whirl of 
leadership. 

‘‘Howard is so disloyal,” she complained to 
each of her followers. “He actually told me I 
looked tired the other night, and once he asked 
me what I was like when I was Celia’s age.” All 
the retainers, with the exception of Gouvain, 
feigned to believe that Howard was to blame. 

Before going to Europe Algeria had led 
Gouvain publicly at the wheels of her chariot, 
after her return she had seized him again. On 
Howard’s defection her rule over Gouvain 
became iron. He became her courier , errand-boy, 
servant. He was too gentle to resist. Pur¬ 
chases, theater tickets, telephone messages, 
chores in general. 

“Let Pierre do it,” she would laugh gayly 
whenever any manner of bothersome task was to 
be done. 

“Poor Pierre!” wheezed good-hearted Carmen. 


234 


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“Maybe he finds it easier than sleeping with 
her,” suggested Celia lazily. 

But Gouvain occasionally contrived to see Em. 
Unconsciously he told Em all that was important. 
She had believed that Algeria was absorbing 
Howard’s personality. Em felt that in leaving 
Algeria he had come through something. He 
had demonstrated that he was real. Even the 
news that he was engrossed in one cheap love 
affair after another was more satisfying than 
having him with Algeria. 

5 

Once alone, Howard began to meet Em more 
simply and kindly on the occasions when they 
were accidentally thrown together. He had no 
feeling of nobility but, away from Algeria, he 
was weary of tension. Several times Em was 
with Les, and Howard included him in a natural 
salutation. Les replied correctly. Em was 
relieved. She set up her easel in the Jane Street 
studio and tried to work again. 

Les and Em sought their friends again. 
Genevieve was radiant. She wagged her long 
earrings like pendulums. 

“Well! I’m beginning to believe that my 
poor little dinner wasn’t such a complete failure 
. after all.” She felt a romantic necessity to 
believe in the relation of her two friends. It gave 
her a sense of escape from superficial contacts. 


THE FEAR OF LIFE 


235 


Genevieve was depressed by the futility of the 
atmosphere that surrounded her. She could 
not successfully intellectualize her hopelessness. 
This was the world of art wherein she had failed. 
Greenwich Village! The triumph of super¬ 
ficialities—and she saw nothing else! She re¬ 
membered with despair the bourgeois home from 
which she had escaped. 

Em hugged her with savage fervor. Les 
smiled. 

“I’m going to make coffee,” Stuart announced 
violently. 

Michael, with misty eyes, plunged precipi¬ 
tately into an incoherent description of a play 
none of the others had cared to see. 

Nights and days. Em sang occasionally at 
her painting. One picture was showing promise, 
but she was not satisfied. Les worked hard at 
hated reviews and miscellaneous hack-work. 
Howard they saw occasionally. He did not even 
have the comfort of knowing that he was inarticu¬ 
late. He was producing a stream of etchings. 

Howard’s apartment held the ghost of Em. 
He could not live in it. He was pale and wan. 
I’ve got to move, he said to himself restlessly. 
Picking up a morning paper, he began to glance 
over the advertisements. “I’m going to get 
drunk!” he exclaimed aloud, a faint color coming 
into his cheeks. His eyes rested on a notice in 
prominent type. 


236 


SINBAD 


“ALGERIA WESTOVER’S STUDIO 

TO LET FURNISHED ON LONG LEASE TO 
REFINED INDIVIDUAL LOVING BEAUTIFUL 
THINGS. 

May be seen by appointment only . 

Address P. Gouvain, 120 Kenilworth 
Place.” 

Howard drew a long breath and lighted a 
cigarette. A privilege for ordinary mortals to 
occupy the dwelling she had sanctified by her 
presence! So exit Algeria, bless her little heart, 
from the stage where she had done no harm— 
sic transit —! 





BOOK IV: “EM” 


“I saw a little girl in tears, said the moon; she was 
crying over the wickedness of the world. A most beautiful 
doll had been given her as a present. Indeed it was a 
splendid doll, so fair and so fragile! Apparently it was 
not created to stand the rough wear and tear of this world. 
The brothers of the little girl, however, great mischievous 
boys, had fixed the doll high up in the branches of a tree 
and then run away. As the little girl could not reach her 
doll and take it down, she began to cry. Evidently the 
doll was crying too, for it stretched out its arms amidst 
the green leaves, and looked quite sad. Yes, yes, the little 
girl experienced some of the troubles of this world . . .** 
Hans Christian Andersen —“What the Moon Saw” 















CHAPTER I 

IMAGE 

“ ‘That is not said rightsaid the Caterpillar. 

‘Not quite right, I’m afraid* said Alice timidly; ‘some 
of the words have got altered.* 

*It’s wrong from beginning to end * said the Caterpillar 
decidedly, and there was silence for some minutes.” 

Lewis Carroll —“Alice in Wonderland” 

1 

Em and Les were pathetically glad to be 
together again. Their first night together they 
had both wept, Les silently and Em hysterically. 
The remembered rooms, the familiar things about 
them, well-known and dear surroundings. Les 
was timid. Em waived sex. I don’t care about 
our bodies. I’m at home with him. They feel 
that all is well at last. 

They had so much in common! Les was a 
congenital artist who by the atmosphere of a 
commercial land had been railroaded into con¬ 
crete activity. She was a congenital artist who 
was a rebel. Why should they not comfort each 
other? Their friends gathered closer around 
them. Genevieve and Stuart. Dinners together 

239 


240 


SINBAD 


again. Toby and Tit Miller dropped in. Em 
forgave Tit at first sight. 

“Very much good say!” He whirled her about 
the studio until she was breathless. 

“Don’t, Tit!” she begged, dizzy and laughing. 
His nonsense made her feel all the world simple 
—no need for defense. What she called reality. 
He described a sweeping arc with his hat and 
bowed low to Les, the hat clutched theatrically 
to his heart. Em loved his boyish relaxation. 

Toby helped her to a chair and drew another 
close to hers. In the penurious surroundings of 
his big dusty attic he experimented in chemical 
syntheses, and now he carefully produced from 
his pockets some tiny vials containing perfumes 
made by himself, which he solemnly bestowed 
on Em. 

“To enable you to keep your husband’s love,” 
he said unctuously. Em ignored his language 
and thanked him effusively. “Don’t I even get 
a kiss?” he complained sadly. She laughed again 
and kissed him lightly, jumping up to escape his 
lingering embrace. She loved him, too. He 
loves me—even if I don’t let him. 

“I’ll make us all some chocolate.” She tripped 
back and forth gayly, the cups and spoons tink¬ 
ling pleasantly in her hands. Toby’s damp eyes 
followed her avidly. Poor Toby! He was 
boundlessly promiscuous in his search for the 
grand amour that would be the culmination of 


IMAGE 


241 


his life. Toby was a flower—a flower on a dung¬ 
hill. Em loved him for the virtues in him which 
he himself despised. She smiled affectionately 
first at him and then at Tit. When the chocolate 
was ready she went over and kissed Les. They 
all gathered contentedly around a low table. 
Candle-light drew them together in its vagueness. 
“Look out, it’s hot,” she warned solicitously. 

Before they could drink, the bell rang. Em 
ran to the door. It was Mark and Blanche. 
Blanche burst excitedly into the room, giggling 
and patting Em and Les, oblivious of them in 
her own agitation. Her perfect satisfaction 
with herself was disarming. 

“You lovely children, do you know, Mark, 
that I said to John just the night before Jen 

told me-” Without stopping for breath she 

was off on her endless soliloquy. All, in spite 
of themselves, conspired toward the perfection 
of her illusions. 

Mark shambled in after her. Tears rolled 
down his cheeks. Gulping violently he kissed 
Em and seized Les’s hand in a spasmodic quiv¬ 
ering grip. 

“What’s the use of trying to say anything?” 
he said, wiping his eyes and blowing his nose 
shamelessly. Unheeding of Blanche’s unbroken 
chatter in his ear, he carelessly handed a little 
package to Em. She untied it and drew out a 
beautiful Chinese carving. 



242 


SINBAD 


“Oh, Mark!” she expostulated, “you shouldn’t. 
You need the money yourself.” 

“Money’s no good, you can’t buy anything 
with it,” he replied quaintly. Mark was utterly 
irresponsible as regards finances. His rent was 
overdue and Em’s carving had been bought with 
the landlord’s money. He told himself that he 
refused to take life seriously, and his stories con¬ 
cerned themselves with morbid and whimsical 
conceptions of annihilation, a mixture of de¬ 
cadence and transcendentalism, mirroring his 
easy yet terrible philosophy. Now, among his 
friends, he was giving himself simply and com¬ 
pletely to the voluptuous feeling of affection 
without responsibility. “It’s good to see you 
together again,” he whispered to Em. 

More chocolate was set forth and boisterous 
conversation made the rooms live. 

“I have a poem here,” Les drew a paper from 
his desk, “new style, written to someone un¬ 
known to me. I’ll read it to you if you’ll give 
me your opinions on it.” 

“Goon! Sure! Fine! Let’s have it.” 

Les read gravely. 

“TO J. F. 

Dickens and Balzac 
Were said to have constantly 
Mingled their fictions 
With their real experiences . 


IMAGE 


243 


!Every one must have known 
Some specimen of our mortal dust 
So intoxicated 

With the thought of his own person 
And the sound of his own voice 
As never to be able 
Even to think the truth 

When his own autobiography was in question. 
Amiable, harmless, radiant J. V.! 

Mayst thou never wake 

To the difference between thy real 

And thy fondly-imagined self!” 

“A fine thing, but a shade too intellectual,” 
said Tit oracularly as Les finished. 

“I don’t call it a poem,” declared Em 
brusquely. 

“I can’t get it at all,” Blanche admitted 
blithely. 

Toby deigned no comment on an effusion that 
contained nothing erotic. Mark was lost in rapt 
self-communion and had heard nothing. 

“You’re primarily a painter, Em, and don’t 
sense the subtleties of words,” argued Tit. “I 
seldom find myself at fault on such things. The 
author of that thing is a real artist, but inexperi¬ 
enced. Where did you get it, Les?” 

“James’s Principles of Psychology, volume 
one, page 374.” 

“Get out!” Tit looked frightened. 

Les handed him a book. 


244 


SINBAD 


“Word for word. The page is turned down.” 

Tit involuntarily joined in the laughter. 

“Well, this proves what I’ve always main¬ 
tained, that William James was the artist and 
Henry the psychologist,” he retorted adroitly 
with an impish gesture. 

They felt happy in each other’s warmth. It 
was late when the group broke up. 

“If Stuart and Jen had only been here it would 
have been perfect,” gushed Blanche as good- 
nights were said. 

“See you soon,” they each called as they filed 
down the stairs. 

“Aren’t they imperfect dears?” demanded Em 
as the lower hall-door slammed after them. “And 
isn’t it lovely to be here together again?” 

Les kissed her. 

“Yes,” he said. 

2 

New days of life. Some of them were beauti¬ 
ful. Then the old tentacles feeling their way 
again. Tiny spun threads of doubt. Em was 
too careful. Deep in herself she realized this 
was her last chance with Les, her last chance 
with life. She had to rebel against the need for 
hiding her sharp undeviated edges of personality. 
Life, forcing her to restraint, made her the more 
unpremeditated. The world was growing dim 
again. Outside horrible people, living unreally 
according to conventional types. She tried in 


IMAGE 


245 


vain to work seriously. The promising picture 
had not precipitated into distinction: at the 
instant of hope it was gone, some paint upon a 
canvas. I can’t get it. Maybe it’s because I’m 
happy again. Am I happy- 

Les, the silent Les, began to talk. Something 
unknown drove him. He was sitting at his desk 
in the waning afternoon light, his strong nose 
etched against the curtain behind him, his wide 
chin emphasized by the dark furrows at either 
side of his mouth. Em watched him. Her ten¬ 
derness for him ached in her. 

“Em.” 

“Yes, dear.” 

“Has your picture come out right?” 

“Not yet.” She willed hope into her voice. 

“I feel—I blame myself—for your not having 
done more. I sometimes think—I was to blame 

—for things-” The reason for my failure is 

that I’m too reasonable. The virtue of a little 
insanity! 

Em went to him and smoothed his hair. 

“It will come, Les. It’s all right.” Shadows 
lay under her eyes and ran down from the bridge 
of her delicate nose toward the edges of her 
mouth. 

He drew a long breath. Conquering a life¬ 
time secrecy, he fought on. 

“My hardness persecuted you till you-” If 

I can talk I won’t feel this hindrance between us. 





246 


SINBAD 


She placed her fingers on his lips. 

“You’re not hard. I won’t have you abusing 

yourself. I was the one who- Let’s not talk, 

Les. Let’s just love each other.” She bent and 
laid her lips against his forehead. She feared 
his conscience. “I love you, Les. Don’t you 
know I love you?” 

“I wonder if any woman* can love me.” No¬ 
body can love one who arouses contempt, as I do 
in Em. How had she ever left him if this per¬ 
fection were not an illusion? Once before it was 
like this and I believed. He could not bear to 
risk another awakening. 

“Oh, Les-” Pain. Em was the one who 

wanted peace now! 

He took her hand and held it to his cheek. 

“I’m afraid my vanity is too crippled ever to 
recover, Em.” Howard Story. That Algeria 
woman. They were what Em went to. The 

kind of people she- Don’t you see I don’t 

dare to believe in us ? 

Em withdrew her hand and seated herself in 
a chair near the desk. Her sloping shoulders 
drooped, already she was tired. 

“Les, you mustn’t let things grow that were 
never there. We must be happy now.” She was 
stubbornly giving. 

“I’m very much older than you, Em,” he said 
irrelevantly. She needs something I couldn’t 
give, that I’ll never be able to give. 





IMAGE 247 

“Bosh! What’s that got to do with us? Les, 
you’re as morbid as-” 

“I wonder if it’s the place,” he continued, 
perplexed. Greenwich Village. We must get 

away. Then maybe we- “Em, I saved quite 

a lot while I was alone in Chicago with my salary 
and expenses, let’s go somewhere together.” 

“All right, sir!” She jumped from her chair 
and flung her arms around him. “Won’t it be 
dear?” she whispered. 

As she released him he lighted a gas lamp and 
took up his papers. 

“I’ve got to finish my blurb on this damned 
book before dinner.” 

“And I’ll make a charcoal sketch for an 
arrangement I thought of last night.” She 
walked toward her work-room. “Let’s get Jen 
and Stuart and go to Manzinetti’s for dinner 
tonight. The bunch will probably all be there.” 

“All right.” 

They felt better. 


3 

Genevieve came often, usually with Stuart. 
Genevieve was too timidly glad, too conscious of 
them, did not take enough for granted. Jen 
is afraid for us- Em and Les had been talk¬ 

ing again. Talk about Howard, Algeria, not 
about Cicely, talk. 





248 


SINBAD 


Michael had been in, full of talk about an old 
connoisseur who wanted to adopt him, leave him 
money, or Ming vases, in his will. Michael had 
ostentatiously steered away from personal mat¬ 
ters. Now Genevieve, exhibiting too much 
delicacy. Em’s talk with Les had unfitted her 
to bear Genevieve’s anxiety. Les had explained 
that he felt he was emotionally lacking. Other¬ 
wise Em would not have gone to Howard, he 
thought. She had thought, I’m too much for 
him. 

Cicely! He loved Cicely because she needed 
none of his strength. Can I trust myself? Will 
I ever be what Les wants? If he’ll only wait! 
If he’ll let me grow old. Les might die. She 
couldn’t bear that. Better die first. Cicely had 
disappeared. Gouvain had told her. Les would 
not speak of it. 

Genevieve sat in the studio and chatted almost 
as loquaciously as Blanche could. If Genevieve 
would let them see her heart. But she only talked 
frantically. 

“Good-by, dears.” She was going. She kissed 
Em and held Les’s hand in both hers. Her faith¬ 
ful eyes were worried as she walked slowly down¬ 
stairs. Is it my fault? Afraid to blame Em, she 
blamed Les for her doubts. I suppose I’m a 
damn fool, she said to herself. 

As Genevieve’s footsteps died away in the hall 
Em lighted a cigarette and sat down to think. 


IMAGE 


249 


“Les, do you love me?” she asked suddenly. 
Genevieve had said something to disturb her. 
Something is still wrong between Les and me, 
what is it? 

“Of course I do, Em.” 

Em thought and felt incidentally. No amount 
of devotion could convince her of love. In most 
ways she accepted from Les a responsibility for 
her that was absurd, yet she exercised over him 
a minute psychical tyranny of which he was but 
half aware. 

“That’s a queer way to express it, Les.” I 
can’t take things as a matter of course. 

“What do you mean, dear?” He came to her. 

“You only talk about love.” He has no curi¬ 
osity, she thought bitterly. Just drift- 

“There’s no answer to that, Em.” His voice 
was tired and hurt, the lines in his face deepened. 
Every emotion dictated. No place to retreat into 
myself while I’m with her. Strength all for 
defense- 

Em drew away from him. 

“Of course not. It’s true. There’s never any 
answer to the truth. What you want is answers.” 

He felt confused and wronged. His suspicion 
of himself already seemed confirmed. The 
change of keying was sudden and inevitable, but 
he could not put his finger on the subtlety 
beneath it. Crown of thorns. Blood on His 
gown . . • the cross . . . sleep flying down . , . 




250 


SINBAD 


He should have taken her in his arms and broken 
her on his heart, but he only talked hopelessly. 
Fevered striving for recognition. The world 
cold, Em needed a touch to heal her, and he 
offered her words. 

“Because I act differently you feel that I-” 

He pities himself, she thought pitilessly. 

“If I only knew you felt at all 

Les began to walk back and forth. 

“I said just before Jen came in that I lacked 
something, Em.” Les acknowledging inferior¬ 
ity! The sin of being forgiven- Had they 

both forgotten that they were determined that 
life together should not be impossible? 

Em rose. 

“You expend just as much emotion on any¬ 
body or anything else as you have for me.” 

Les’s eyes darkened, he felt numb. It’s she 
who shares with anybody. I don’t count. No 
appreciation of individuality. Invades my per¬ 
sonality. Ignores my desire. Achievement . . . 
my novel . . . graves lying still ... I wish 
Carl- Fear of losing her still ruled him. 

“I don’t dare now to say what I think any 
more.” She always lustful for revenge, and I 
always frightened. Impulses, outgoings—all 
swallowed up in fear! 

They looked at each other baffled. The trip 
they were to take together away from grief was 
forgotten. 





CHAPTER II 

MIST 

“I won’t be my father’s Jack. 

I won’t be my father’s Jill. 

I will be the fiddler’s wife, 

And have music when I will. 

T’other little tune, t’other little tune, 

Prythee, love, play me t’other little tune.” 

“Mother Goose’s Rhymes” 

1 

The fact of Howard’s rather prompt desertion 
of Algeria had sowed poison in Em’s relation 
with Les. She did not realize this. I knew 
Howard couldn’t stand her. Did our relation 
really mean something to him? Em was des¬ 
perate at not being able to work. She would 
not admit that the new Les had disappointed 
her unalterably. 

Les had found Cicely, had met her accidentally 

in downtown New York. Cicely was seeking 

work. He had tried to be friends with her, had 

offered to take her to the Empire State Trust 

Company, to ask Mr. Sutton to employ her as 

young Babbitt’s assistant. Cicely had not re- 

251 


252 


SINBAD 


proached him, but had refused help, had refused 
to be friends. Les told it all to Em’. 

“Why should she hate you, Les?” 

“She doesn’t. It’s the same kind of pride I 
should have.” 

Em had hoped he would condemn Cicely. She 
admired him for not doing so, but she despaired. 

“You must find some way to help her, Les.” 
A frozen hand caught Em by the throat. She 
knew that she would always have to share Les 
with Cicely, whether Cicely was there or not. 
I’m not big enough- 

Les worked early and late. Freelancing was 
a hopeless campaign. He said nothing, but he 
was too tired to make love. Em often left him 
and went out. He’s happier when I’m away, she 
told herself. She saw Howard frequently. 
Greenwich Village is a neighborhood. Once he 
was in a restaurant with Cicely. That worried 
her. She felt a conspiracy of understanding 
from which she was excluded. Once Howard 
overtook Em on the street. 

“Shall we have some tea?” He looked young 
and artless, smiling at her, a suggestion of pain 
hidden in his eyes. Em was sentimentally con¬ 
science-stricken that she had broken so brutally 
with Howard. 

“I don’t mind.” She was so pleased that she 
was surprised at herself. It was relief to be with 



MIST 


253 


Howard again. He understands my inadequacies, 
how inevitable they are. 

Unconsciously she drifted into trying to hold 
to Les and yet get Howard back. She explained 
it to herself, that a human relation had survived 
between them all. Em was honest, but intellec¬ 
tually blind. Her emotions were subtle. She 
was frightened that she wanted Howard again, 
but their past mutual cruelties in the gray of her 
present apathy seemed life. She inarticulately 
felt that Les and Howard combined would be 
complete. She tried to argue herself into a 
justification of such a situation. 

Deep in Em’s unconscious self Cicely stood. 
Cicely was Em’s audience. Em was pathetically 
trying to wring, first from Les and then from 
Howard, some sign that she, too, was physically 
compelling. After Algeria, Howard could not 
put Em out of his mind. He wanted Em, for 
vanity’s sake. He needed to leave on her some 
mark of his power. She wanted him for stimulus. 
After Howard, she could not endure alone the 
lack of stress with Les. She would not conceal 
her actions. 

“Les, should you mind if Howard came here 
occasionally?” 

Les’s large brow wrinkled. His hair, swept 
backward over his head, was becoming streaked 
with gray. He thought a moment, his small 
powerful hands clenched. The passenger rocked 


254 SINBAD 

the boat! Ha! Ha! Ha! Am I going insane? 
Yes, it’s true- 

“Why do you want him, Em?” No security. 
Failure. Love is defenselessness before one 
person. Its pathos arises chiefly from the fallacy 
that it will be a source of comfort in a hostile 
world. Bah! What good thinking? He was 
betrayed. I am old . . . 

“Do you think there is any reason why we 
should act conventionally, Les?” Em at the 
moment really believed what she said. She did 
not notice something impelling her. 

“Why risk our happiness again, Em?” He 
felt degraded by pleading. 

“Why fear risks?” she asked valiantly. “Why 
not prove our happiness?’ That Les cared 
exhilarated her. Was he happy? Child of the 
moment, she had forgotten Howard, though they 
were discussing him. 

“Are you sure you aren’t beginning to care 
for him again?” Must I be defiled by jealousy? 
“You think if you take risks emotionally enough 
they aren’t risks.” 

Em was repulsed. 

“Of course on your theory of the emotions 
that’s the obvious explanation.” She caught at 
anything to defend herself. I can’t tell the 
truth either. How like my talks with Howard! 

Les felt that he knew his fatal handicap. I’m 



MIST 255 

constructive. Em and Howard were both de¬ 
structive. I realize I have lost. 

“Why must you have him? Love can’t exist 
without fortitude, Em.” She won’t use will 
power- 

Now he’s preaching to me, she thought resent¬ 
fully. 

“Why shouldn’t I?” she demanded. “I’m not 
in love with him.” 

Les bowed his head. Dividing soul and body. 
Degrading both. Secret smiles . . . speak no 
word . . . 

“I make no objection,” he said. 

2 

Howard came. There was almost a flourish 
in his mien. He would never love Em again, he 
thought. She belongs with Lester. 

“How are you, Drane?” 

Les took his hand without reply. Em’s small 
beautiful head above her slender neck. Em’s 
delicacy and distinction of body, wistful boy-girl 
body with its hard pointing breasts. Her bravado 
and pathos. I can’t bear for him to see her as I 
see her. Damn the Village! Place where you 
share your money and the body of your woman 
—slime! 

Em had put flowers on the table. She had 
arranged her marvelous hair carefully, wore a 
becoming gown Les had never seen. Howard 



256 


SINBAD 


imitated himself, displayed his social skill, charm. 
He was playing to Les more than to Em. He 
retailed a clever risque story. Em laughed 
lightly. 

“What poison-minded people!” 

Howard flashed. 

“People’s imaginations are like necessary evils 
in society.” 

A string of neat phrases. Les appeared surly 
and clownish. He knew it. His smile was a 
dead man’s smile. Em and Howard striking 
fire from each other! Flowers. Hair. Gown. 
I will not! Anguish. Cold hollow of her 
breast . . . beauty grown foul . . . He rose 
and grasped his hat and coat. 

“You must excuse me.” 

Les stumbled as he walked down the stairs, 
his hand on the rail. 


3 

When Les returned Em was alone. She lay 
on the bed, her thin body contorted in an agony 
of weeping. 

Les could not speak. Will the end come? 
What do I want? The night outside. The 
moon . . . still pool . . . white arms enfold 
me . . . 

He seated himself in a chair. Morning. He 
was still there. 

Em had gone to sleep. 


CHAPTER III 

TIE 

“In the evening they talked together pleasantly, then 
quarrelled, then came to blows. In the morning both are 
ashamed and surprised, they think it must have been the 
result of some exceptional state of their nerves. Next 
night again a quarrel and blows. And so every night until 
at last they realize that they are not at all educated, but 
savage.” 

Note-Book of Anton Chekov 
(Trans. S. S. Koteliansky and L. Woolf) 

1 

Em again gave up Howard. She could not 
bear Les’s hurt. Howard’s coarseness of mis¬ 
understanding had defiled her. She was con¬ 
vinced that she was physically incompetent. 
Les was withdrawn, Em was away from the 
studio a great deal. It humiliated her now to 
see Howard. She saw him several times, never 
with Algeria. Les at home alone, what am I 
running after? One day Howard overtook her 
again. 

“Em, why are you avoiding me?” 

“I want to be alone.” 

“Let’s go to the park and walk.” He hailed a 
taxi. 


257 


258 


SINBAD 


“I don’t want to, Howard.” The cab-driver 
turned away, incensed. 

“When can I come to see you again?” 

“Don’t come any more.” 

Hatred struggled in Howard’s eyes. The 
malice of women! 

“Then why did you ask me at all?” His mouth 
twitched a little. 

Em was compassionate. She was cruel to 
everything but helplessness. 

“I’m sorry, Howard.” Her voice was soft. 

He sprang to the hope of control. He was 
always at his best when winning. He straight¬ 
ened his loose shoulders. 

“You can’t treat people like this, Em. You 
should at least allow a day or two for the holes 
to heal before stabbing again. No wonder you’re 
finding yourself isolated.” 

His words reached home, she cringed under 
them. 

“There’s no need for you to risk anything by 
trying to rescue the outcast,” she said sullenly. 

He went on ruthlessly. 

“Men run from you because you insult them’ 
without letting them sleep with you.” Howard 
was as unsatisfied as she or Les with the ugly 
lack of criteria of self-respect around them. But 
he was compelled to make her realize him. 

“I don’t want to sleep with anybody!” she 


TIE 259 

exclaimed in angry pain, tears starting to her 
eyes. 

“Pooh! Marriage has destroyed women’s 
fastidiousness. A woman who sleeps with one 
man she detests will sleep with any man once 
convention is relaxed.” No one is decent any 
more. Why deny life as it is? Unmorality. 
Dirt! Can’t possess one’s own person. No form 
to life. I hate it, too, but I must have her back 
or blot her out. She’s ruined me. “You hang 
to Drane from fear.” 

“I don’t!” she cried, helpless in her confusion 
and wrath. 

“You’re both afraid. Every lover lives in 
fear. And you’ve lectured me about courage!” 
Howard laughed scornfully. He was riding to 
victory. 

Em did not realize that it was her own despair 
that was subduing her. 

“Why is it any longer your business even if 
it’s so?” she jerked out like a vexed school-girl. 

Howard shrugged his shoulders. She would 
not come to him, but she was humbled. He could 
not live beneath her. 

“It isn’t. Why should I worry? When you 
can’t get all you want, you destroy all you have. 
Well, it’s up to you. I’m through.” 

Brawling on the street! What made her 
listen? The fear of not being hurt? Em 
shivered. She lifted her head. 


260 


SINBAD 


“Let’s not repeat this, please. I’m glad you 
understand. I don’t want you or anyone else. 
I only want to work. Good-by.” 

Howard laughed again, malicious exulting in 
his laugh. 

“Work? It is to laugh! You won’t work. 
Your things get worse and worse. Instead of 
rhythms you’re producing ringlets!” 

Em’s mouth opened and she paled as if he 
had struck her in the face. He walked away. 
Conquered! He felt happy. He was not afraid 
of Em any longer. 

She had planned to dismiss Howard! 

2 

Em went home wounded and sore. Les was 
sitting alone in the studio. She walked by his 
chair, laid her hand upon his head. 

“My dear!” She needed to be near him, longed 
for a bodily presence, a presence to touch and 
comfort. 

His mouth trembled. 

“Em, I need help. Life frightens me. I’m* 
not up to your standard.” His voice was bitter 
and tired. “I wish I were a woman.” 

She turned away from him. She had no excess 
of life to give any more. I’m weak, too. 

“It’s easy to be a woman, Les. You only 
need to be useless.” Her painting was feeble, 
she knew it now, even her first best things. 


TIE 


261 


Nothing in the world, not even herself. The 
waste of suffering! She was glad he was weak 
and small before her. She could reach him. The 
man where there is no child. She turned to him 
again. “Les, Howard is gone.” 

Les’s hands clutched his chair. Dare to 

think- The tree of life . . . angels like 

butterflies ... a lamp held high . . . 

“Gone?” 

“He won’t come any more.” She approached. 

“Em-” Les’s shoulders heaved, but Em 

could hear no sound. She knelt and stroked one 
of his tense hands. 

“Yes, darling.” Her throat ached. 

“Em, we will go away.” 

“Yes,” she whispered. 

“We’ll go away. While I was alone I saved 
enough. We’ll go to some far warm place—and 
be.” Rose-colored dreams. Minarets . . . 
closed blooms of lotus flowers . . . cry like a 
silver bird . . . eyes behind a veil . . . golden 
breasts . . . 

“Yes, Les.” 

“Where there is no more struggling.” Seas 
with no tide . . . island belted with gold 
sand . . . crooning of the sea . . . listening 
shore . . . peace . . . 

“Yes, Les.” She snuggled to him. Life 
cannot be felt. Go from life, leave pain. It 





262 SINBAD 

makes no difference to live. I will, she resolved, 
I will! 

He bent and put his arms around her, his face 
on her shoulder, his cheek to hers. They sat 
clutching each other in the failing light. Les’s 
hour had come. She was beaten. He was already 
on the sea. Saffron ship . . . night like black 
hair . . . white fires of spume . . . birds in 
the painted sky . . . lonely cries in the dark 
. . . dim land . . . palms like harmless 
madmen . . . 

“Oh Em! You will love me!” 

She clung to him. 

“There’s no one but us, Les.” 

Les’s world had become a holy place. Church 
of the sea . . . pale lilies of foam . . . chant 
of storms . . . rosaries of spray . . . Em’s 
pictures of heaven . . . my book, the Sacred 
Book . . . candles of God in the sky . . . the 
star of hope, star made of a lily . . . 

Em shuddered. 

“Kiss me, Les.” 


CHAPTER IV 

“WHAT LITTLE GIRLS ARE MADE OF” 


“I dreamed we lived in a wood, Mama, 

And rested beneath its bowers, 

When a butterfly came in its flaunting pride 
And I chased it away to the forest wide, 

And night came on and I lost my guide, 

And I kneiv not what to do. 

“I cried and I sighed in my fears, Mama, 

And I loudly called for thee. 

When a white-robed maiden appeared in the air. 

And she flung bach the lochs of her golden hair, 

And hissed me sweetly ere I was aware. 

Saying *Come, little one, with me.* ** 

Author Unknown —“Old Lullaby** 

1 

As he thought of it, Les was more frightened 
by Em's letting Howard go than he would have 
been by her clinging to them both. Change! 
Change after change. He feared her immediacy, 
he distrusted women who melt. Em knew she 
debited cruelly to Les the fact that she had to 
give up Howard entirely. She was finally quite 
detached about it and wondered why Les could 
not be. He tried to have faith. 

263 


264 


SINBAD 


“I knew you were fine inside, Em.” 

She did not reply—she spoke of him . 

“You’re good, too, Les.” 

He was silent, amazed. Praise was bewilder¬ 
ing. Pie grew suspicious. 

“You mustn’t get mushy, Em.” 

Now he was accusing her of having an ideal 
of him. Les was two-dimensional, a drawing, 
one could not feel his edges. Em was sculpture. 
He was outclassed. She spoke curtly. 

“You’re the one who’s mushy—about yourself. 
Humility is a romantic emotion.” Em respected 
nothing that was not like herself. 

“I’m not humble.” 

“You’re a martyr.” 

“Em-” he protested, bruised. 

“Sacrifice that costs too much is an insult,” 
she continued remorselessly. 

They were both walking about the studio, 
aimlessly and nervously. He was frightened. 
Why couldn’t she be docile? There was never 
any stopping-place after such a beginning. And 
we were going away to peace! Les was afraid 
to touch her, she made every contact an occasion 
for making him and herself feel intensely. He 
was the only one left whom she could hurt with¬ 
out paying for it. Now she hurt him even before 
others. Once she had kept her whip for private 
use, recently she had not hesitated to speak com¬ 
pletely when their friends were present. Gene- 



“WHAT GIRLS ARE MADE OF ” 265 


vieve and Michael had witnessed the last quarrel. 
Soon it would be strangers! Tides . . . The 

world. The Village coming in- Psychic 

living with everybody. Treachery of spirit- 

I’m betrayed to others. 

“Em, I shall go away if you ever insist on 
stripping me again before outsiders,” he had 
said afterward. 

She had rebelled furiously. I won’t be his 
child! 

“Why don’t you go?” she had dared him. 

Today he was apprehensive again. She 
resented his quick trepidation. How can I get 
through this moment without revealing myself, 
he thought. She was thinking indignantly, he’s 
insulting me by being afraid. 

“Em, why can’t we be just kind?” 

Em felt the same, but she rejected suggestions 
even though she agreed with them. She was 
obsessed with preserving her own contours. 

“You and I have done something to each other, 
Les.” Her voice seemed to him callous. “We 
can never either of us be the same again, we 
tear each other.” 

Les and Em knew they had to talk. It had 
been gathering too long. They seated themselves 
and began to discuss their life as if it belonged 
to others. 

“You resent my having any dignity,” he 
replied spiritlessly. Wring another stimulus. 




26*> 


SINBAD 


Spiritual clutching and clawing. My strength 
for this. I shall never write . . . 

She ignored his words. 

“Les, we’ve never possessed each other, we 
make each other cruel.” Em seemed only to be 
stating a fact. 

“You’ve ignored my will, Em. You can’t find 
any joy in respectful and voluntary communion.” 
Jealous of my thoughts! 

“You’ve no joy in anything,” she gibed. He’ll 
give me anything but what I want. 

Les knew it was hopeless, he had acknowledged 
too much, but he went on. 

“Em, you know what I have-” 

“Yes, you have,” she said with quiet bitterness. 
“Your preconception of me still lives. I died to 
you a year ago.” 

Her mental phrases disconcerted him. He 
realized that they held portent. 

“Em, can’t we begin-?” 

“What’s the use, Les?” she interrupted, her 
eyes gazing far away. “I’ve hated your ideal 
of me too long.” 

He was too tired to argue. Bound together 
only by dangerous secrets! 

“Please don’t, Em,” he begged. 

“I can’t bear to share you, Les.” They were 
both tired. 

Howard and Les were the same kind of artist, 
they both thought generally, Les even felt 




“WHAT GIRLS ARE MADE OF” 267 


generally. All he wanted was his picture of 
himself. He marveled that failure with another 
hurt him so little, he did not know that alone he 
could never fail. His trusted mechanisms. Now 
that he was done- 

“I can’t be anything hut what I am, Em. I’m 
sorry.” 

Em rose so suddenly that he started in his 
chair. She had schooled herself until she was 
tingling. 

“You won’t be anything but words!” Why 
did I try to argue with him? I knew it! 

The truth had no words for either of them. 
He rose too, his voice was colorless. 

“An absolute giving of every moment and 
thought for a lifetime to you is only ordinary 
kindness,” he said slowly. “You resent one 
moment for myself as heartless brutality.” 
Clinging together just to have someone to hurt! 
Let me go, Em, let me live! Les’s face was set. 

Em’s eyes were wide and cruel. 

“I don’t want vour machine!” she cried, chok- 

•/ * 

ing. “I want myself—what I want means 
nothing to you—I want to be alone-” 

He looked old. He could no longer suffer, but 
habit led him. Pity everything that lives- 

“Listen, Em-” 

She stood straight, her voice trembling. 

“Go to Cicely Frank. She wants to stand 
you—God, how I pity her!” 






268 


SINBAD 


“Em!” He moved toward her. It can’t go 
on. I really never expected- 

“I want to get away from you!” she said 
shrilly, backing out of his reach. “You have no 
heart! You’re a ghost. You’re killing me!” 
Em held her hands to her head, her eyes staring. 
“I hate you!” she screamed, “you fool idealist!” 

Her repugnance gave him freedom. He was 
convinced that she could live without him. He 
spoke decidedly. 

“All right, Em.” 

His relief maddened her. She struck her own 
face with her hands, then him. She pushed by 
him, seized at her coat, stumbled against the 
table, fumbled at the door. Her eyes were dull, 
she breathed hoarsely. 

“Let me get out of here—I never want to see 
you again-” 

She rushed into the hall tumultuously, with 
uncertain steps, leaving the door open. Les 
closed it. He stood thinking of himself. I’m 
dead, Em thought, as she rushed into the street. 

2 

Em returned to her hall bedroom on Charles 
Street. The scrawny woman looked through 
her spectacles curiously at Em’s strained face. 
The easel and Em’s trunks were never moved. 

Les kept on at his tedious work. It was for 
himself. It seemed less distasteful somehow. 




“ WHAT GIRLS ARE MADE OF ” 269 


He smoked a great deal, at night. Genevieve 
came once. She did not dare to go to Em. Les 
lived entirely by himself. Peaceful ghosts . . . 
separate . . . going . . . ship . . . sunset, 
sea of blood . . . seaweed, float like dead 
hair . . . black moonbeams . . . Carl go with 
me . . . forever . . . 

Toby found Em at Charles Street, the scrawny 
woman suspicious. He looked around the tiny 
grimy room. 

“Dear girl, is it-?” Toby’s eyes were 

foolish and wet. Em nodded. “Do you think 
you could love me?” He held out his childish 
hands unbelievingly. He would never have 
asked for her till she was thrown aside. 

She had to smile. 

“No, Toby dear, I’ll never want anybody 
again.” 

Toby went sadly. 

Gouvain not only made love to her, he dogged 
her steps. 

“Iss zere no hope?” he asked, late one evening. 
“I lofe ze ground your feets tread.” He swal¬ 
lowed hard. “Emilie—via pauvre—je tfaime—je 

tadore—moi -” He stammered pitifully, his 

beautiful eyes like a patient dog’s. 

Em looked at him, suffering in her face. 

“I—no—don’t-” she said, patting his arm 

kindly. She knew he would not do. After he 
had had her, it would be the same. It was a pity 





270 


SINBAD 


he was so sweet. He loved her soul because he 
liked her body! Another fool idealist. 

He kissed her hand, gentleness in his whole 
being. 

All grasping at straws! Em felt love was 
ecstasy, Les felt it was permanence. Em pon¬ 
dered. Love was individuals. They can’t see. 
Love was. 

Les had hope in himself. He walked every 
evening downtown. At last he met Cicely. 
There was still no reproach in her eyes. She is 
kind. I must have- 

“Won’t you walk on the Battery awhile before 
you go home, Cicely?” 

Cicely shook her head. Down the cold spring 
street people rushed by them like driven wraiths. 
The high buildings rose heavily in the perspective 
beyond them. 

“No, Les.” Her humility made her cruel to 
herself. 

“I didn’t know you were so hard, Cicely.” 

She looked at him sadly, her eyes unsoftened. 

“A girl has got to have some pride, Les.” 

She left him and mingled with those who 
hurried to the subway. 

Now they called to Les, the distant places. 
His boyhood day-dreams back again. Labo¬ 
ratories and honors, shadowy friends, women, 
Em, all forgotten. His eyes looked out to sea, 
that’s the only thing big enough- The garden 




“WHAT GIRLS ARE MADE OF ” 271 


of the earth . . . sun dimmed by grief, there are 
not even any clouds . . . calling, calling . . . 
tossing arms of foam • . . light beyond, light 
falling like rain . . . stars, dawn, bright seeds 
fall to the furrowed sea . . . warm, the tropic 
sun . . . hair woven with gold . . . sleep . . . 


• • • 


CHAPTER V 

LOVE MAY GO ON 


“But ah! you should have seen me when I was sweet 
seventeen . I was the very moral of my poor dear mother, 
and she was a pretty woman, though I say it that shouldn’t. 
She had such a splendid mouth of teeth . It was a sin to 
bury her in her teeth.” 

Samuel Butler —“The Way of All Flesh” 

1 

Genevieve, worried and timorous, finally 
braved the scrawny woman’s spectacles. 

“May I see Miss Tyler?” 

The woman pointed weirdly upward, Gene¬ 
vieve ascended along the gloomy stairway and 
knocked softly at the mysterious door. Em 
opened to her. Genevieve tried not to see the 
white drawn face and thin arms, the tumbled 
bed behind Em, paper bags, food. Em hasn’t 
been out to eat. 

“Jen—what-” Em spoke dully but her 

eyes shone unnaturally. 

“Darling, I just came!” Genevieve gathered 
Em in her arms and held her. 

Em attempted to smile, haggard sick smile. 
Sunshine came through the window behind her. 

272 



LOVE MAY GO ON 


273 


Back yards. Cold walls. Tiny gray green leaves 
on the thin tree brushing the window. Em’s 
handkerchiefs, stockings, hung up to dry. 

“Thank you, Jen, but I don’t need anybody.” 

Genevieve would not be rebuffed. 

“Em, what frightful things have happened in 
these few days?” Her eyes filled. “You haven’t 
a cent. You don’t have to tell me. Eating this 
way. Your friends—I’m-” 

“Not at all, Jen, all the frightful things hap¬ 
pened before.” I don’t want money. I could 
go out. 

Genevieve’s strong wise eyes in her perplexed 
little face. She did not dare ask questions, she 
was baffled. Life horrible—we’ve got to save 
her- 

“Michael has actually taken a job with his 
connoisseur, as secretary, of course there’s no 

work attached to it- Blanche and her John 

are to be married, just think, poor man!- 

Mark has sold four stories and already spent all 
the money.” Genevieve pretended that some¬ 
thing to interest was needed. She was talking 
for opportunity. “Tit is in love and has written 
an awful poem to his Columbine, who’s a pretty 
little idiot. Who with brains could stand Tit? 

He never felt anything real in his life- I 

saw Les a day or two ago, he’s looking rotten.” 
She glanced keenly at Em for her effect. 
“Women are terrible creatures, Em, we want 








274 


SINBAD 


the moon. Have you painted any since you 
came here?” Genevieve paused for breath, her 
hands still holding Em’s. What must I do? Her 
own fastidiousness would not let her go further 
with Em’s futile reticences. I must tell Les. 

“No,” said Em vacantly. They blame me. 
They’re sorry for Les. I have no one. 

“You’d smile at the pretty girl who now adorns 
my walls—magazine cover—I posed for it in a 
mirror. It does amuse me when I think of my 
serious art-student days. Life grinds us-” 

Genevieve talked on industriously, believing 
that she was doing good. She said nothing of 
her own worry, of Stuart’s terrible depression. 
Her shallow cynical snapshots were the same 
they had always been, her beautiful feeling was 
unchanged, but Em read into it that the last 
approval had been removed. They’ve gone back 
on me. Les is right. I’m unfitted for human 
life. I’m alone. 

Genevieve went away, miserable. Her warm 
kiss left Em cold. Enmity. Les is theirs. 
Being an idealist saves lots of trouble! In 
America a lack of sentimentality is more embar¬ 
rassing than a lack of money. But Em was still 
uncontaminated. I’ll be myself! She dressed 
with trembling fingers and went out. She forgot 
her hollow cheeks, her almost emaciated form, 
forgot that she looked ill and piteous. It was 
growing dusk. She had no plan. She almost 



LOVE MAY GO ON 


275 


ran along the streets. She did not know where 
she was. Men looked at her. She had visions of 
men devouring her with their eyes. She was 
naked in their arms. Mitral In the middle of 
the Square she met him. She was oblivious to 
the people about them. 

He smiled coldly, a smile for himself. His 
hardness was something precious to her. She 
needed his simplicity of selfishness. At least he 
wants my body. She stood looking boldly into 
his opaque eyes, she opened and shut her mouth. 

“Speak!” he commanded shortly. 

“Mitra, do you want to love me? Take me.” 

His abysmal vanity had waited. His immobile 
eyes were like black beads. There was no move, 
no gesture. He almost whispered. 

“Little red snake, you ought to be killed. If 
your naked body knelt before me I would not 
touch it.” He moved slowly away, his face 
unchanged. 

Em wanted to laugh hysterically. Not even 
a harlot without pay. She walked unsteadily 
back to her room. Some place to hide. Away 
from the Village—away from all the world! 

When she went in, Les was there. His 
responsibility for her would not die. He wanted 
nothing else. He could not keep away. His 
conscience dragged him back. His glance was 
troubled. Her eyes . . . He took her in his 
arms. She was cold and trembling. Her eyes 



276 


SINBAD 


stared and her mouth was loose. They both felt 
an unspoken horror of the poverty-stricken little 
room. Les blamed himself for her being there. 

“Em, we have nobody but us.” He held her 
tenderly. “Em, let’s be good to each other— 

won’t you? Em-” He sobbed once as her 

cold face touched his. “Em—I—let’s not expect 

too much—Em—let’s-” He could not say 

anything more. He refuses to resent, she 
thought with vague surprise. She scarcely had 
heard his words. He helped her to remove her 
coat and hat. The room was cold, he lighted a 
little kerosene stove and sat down, pulling her to 
his knees. “Won’t you come back, Em? Oh, 

Em-” He leaned against her and cried as 

a punished child cries. 

She tried to speak. Why don’t I say anything? 

“All right,” she answered at last. Her voice 
sounded far off. She could not realize she had 
said it. Life was too dim. 

“Shall we go now?” he asked gently. He was 
careful. He knew no one had ever forced Em. 

“Don’t make me do anything. Don’t make 

me go now. Don’t-” I can’t see. I must 

think, I must think. Who is taking me now? 
Men- He pities me. I can’t be pitied. 

The scrawny woman was moving warningly in 
the hall outside. Les rose and put on his big 
overcoat. 

“When, Em?” He kissed her soothingly. She 







LOVE MAY GO O N 


277 


stared at him blankly. I am blind. Is he here? 
Who wants me? “Shall I come in the morning?” 
His voice is so kind! Am I sick? “Shall I come 
in the morning ?” he repeated. 

“No, not then. No, not then.” What does he 
want? I can’t do anything. 

“When, Em?” he insisted, his arm around her. 
The light from the oil-stove, like a dancing flower 
on the wall behind her, annoyed him. It was all 
unreal to him, too, but he ignored the feeling. 

“Some time. I don’t know.” Are we dead? 
Why is it all dark? 

“Tomorrow night, then?” His experience 
misled him, he should have carried her away. 

“All right.” Em was numb. 

“We’ll go to dinner together.” He was kind. 
Hope would cure her. 

Why is he always the same? She was per¬ 
plexed. No, I want him to be that way. What 
does it mean? Les kissed her again and went 
out. I can’t think. She lay down on the bed, 
her clothes on. I can’t think. What is the 
matter? I’m tired. 


2 

Les set out from Jane Street after breakfast, 
peddling hack-work, timely stuff, special articles, 
feature stories, human interest, captions, bunk. 
Why? Was there still courage? There was no 
success! Yawning girls, irritable editors, insult- 


278 


SINBAD 


ing advertising managers. He went back to the 
studio. Crushed and discouraged. The fat 
Polish janitress handed him a cablegram. 

"Mile. E . Tyler/ 3 

“Bad news it is not?” the janitress said, eyeing 
the envelope fearfully. 

Les opened it. Part of the words started out 
at him. 

"Vos peintures — honneur — grand prioc — mes 
compliments — Lepelletier. 33 

“No, it’s good news!” exclaimed Les joyfully. 
“Mrs. Drane has just had some great luck.” 

“I will be glad for you,” replied the woman 
shyly. She was, however, already condemning 
Em for her absence. 

Les ran up the stairs and threw down his 
portfolio, then descended with all his speed to 
the street again and started happily for Em’s 
place. I must write Carl about it—and we’ll get 
Jen and Stuart and the whole bunch and have a 

big blowout tonight. Em is- Now she can 

paint. I can write ... It began to drizzle. I 
won’t believe it’s over. Something outside us 
will save us. It’s all right now. The rain in¬ 
creased. Golden liquor of rain . . . wind 
dallying with the mists ... We are safe. The 
trees guard the streets . . . We’ll go away 
now, and work at last. Our star has bowed . . . 
He felt delirious—happy delirium. Happy. We 
haven’t been happy in so long. We must! 



LOVE MAY GO ON 


279 


Something in Les made him whistle gayly as 
he strode quickly along. 

3 

Em was in her hall-bedroom. The sunlight 
made a golden pool on the faded carpet. She 
looked out into the back yard. The lonely 
tree, young leaves prematurely blackening and 
shriveling, half-washed clothes hanging to dry. 

She rose and rearranged her dress neatly, 
brushed out her hair. I will think now. The 
V illage—H o ward—Algeria—Mitr a—who- 

Les. She knew she was a victim of his sacri¬ 
fice. I destroy him. She laughed. That is life. 
Eat and grow fat! I’m so sorry for people. 

Les. Meaningless acceptance. The land of 
reticence. A receiver of the dead! Oh, I can’t 
be invisible with them before me! I must live or 
kill life! The fear of fear. Iron hand, I’m 

choking- I must die. Then I won’t worry 

him—or anybody. I’ll be tranquil and sure, 
like him. 

I don’t know whether I’m crazy or not, some¬ 
thing hurts me so, round and round! My work 

is gone forever—gone- Oh, don’t everybody 

go away from me! Anything, that is like love! 

Silver gong—ring!—ring!- Em was in the 

power of the unknown. 

Les’s secret peace. She was sure that when 
it was over she could rest. She felt she could 







280 


SINEAD 


not leave the room until it was done. Something 
kept her from putting it into words. She sat 

down to think it out. Trying to think- A 

belated fly buzzed feebly behind the curtain. The 
clock annoyed her with its irrelevance. Noises 
from the street bothered her. She tried to make 
herself unconscious of them. 

I must think. She sat rigid, her knees drawn 
together in a narrow posture, her hands clenched, 
her white knuckles peering at her like white eyes. 
She was ashamed that she could not live. She 
stared dizzily, her eyes wide, the pupils unseeing, 
then her unsteady gaze came back. I’m not 
going to die. She tried to convince herself, 
looking dumbly at her strained hands, only half 
perceiving them. 

Her breath stopped as the memory of the 
night she left Les came again. The thought of 
death was so much easier than the thought of 
that night. Her cheeks were gray under their 
splashes of rouge. Hatred leaped to her head. 
Her hands were tortured. She swerved like one 
who is struck. Her body jerked involuntarily. 
Light life! Lives of—what? Bohemian death. 
She rose and turned on the gas and flung herself 
on the narrow bed. 

There was a gentle hissing sound. The inde¬ 
finable smell of the close room mingled with 
the smell of the gas. It did not penetrate her 
understanding. She imagined she was shrinking 



LOVE MAY GO ON 


281 


up. She loved death and she was afraid of it. 
I am dead. I could endure no more. Her senses 
became unbearably acute. Every thread in the 
curtains was intense. She moved slightly. It 
seemed as though Les had touched her. She 
spoke tenderly as if they were alone. 

“Les—Les-” 

Iron hands again on her breasts. She whim¬ 
pered, little inarticulate sounds in her throat. 
She hated herself for dying. 

Her cramped hands unclenched, they were 
flushed and the nails were blue. A gentle color 
had come back to her cheeks and her eyes were 
clear, beautiful violet rings under them, tiny 
freckles over the bridge of her delicate nose. 
Her pale lips drooped apart wistfully, a bar 
of sunshine leaped between the curtains and 
trembled on her white teeth. The power of 
violence made her beautiful. 

An hour later a knock on the door and Les’s 
jubilant voice. 

“Em! Em!” 


4 

At San Francisco Les found a tramp clearing 
for Suva. 

The ship goes out. 

Clotted sky . . . night closing eyes of the 
sun with soft Angers . . . fold giant wings . . . 
buoy . . . bells of death . . . dead bury their 



282 


SINBAD 


dead . . . fame! . . . art is dead ... a 
wordless Book . . . moon pour balm from your 
pale cup . . . 


. . white memory 
Of a tropic sea. 

How softly it comes up 
Like an ungathered lily” 

Morning. Above, gay clouds. Chariots of 
the air . . . the unknown isles ... a kind 
place . . . hills of amethyst . . . more life, 
more life . . . the palimpsest . . . cool medicine 
of the ideal . . . arms of peace . . . moons 
like breasts . . . the finger-tips of the holy 
Spirit ... I don't need Carl . . . 

This was his reward. 


THE END 


wise 































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